Renegades
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: The demise of an elderly woman in a Pennsylvania farm family has far-reaching effects on a Wyoming ranch family when the secrets of their related history come to light.
1. Chapter 1

**RENEGADES**

" _ **In every conceivable manner, the family is the link to our past, the bridge to our future."**_ Alex Haley

 _ **Gracie (aka Nonie) Sherman**_ _here with ruminations on family fragmentation. Young folks today don't study too much on what really happens to the family left behind when they grow up and move away from home. They don't have to… not in this age of instant global communication. A daughter in Seattle can text her Momma in Miami to ask—and even see—what she's fixing for dinner. A grandson in Hong Kong can email a Happy Birthday message to his Granddaddy in New Jersey. A husband in Afghanistan can Skype his wife in Montana and say hello to his children._

 _That's not how it was seven generations ago in America… beginning in the 1840s with the first great migrations westward. The decision to leave civilization behind and strike out for the unknown meant—among a great many other considerations—severing timely communications with those left behind. There was no coast-to-coast postal system. Letters 'home' took months to reach their destination, if at all. By the time the transcontinental telegraph was established in 1861 and—eight years later—the nation-spanning railroad was completed, connections between eastern and western factions of families had often become tenuous or non-existent. Children born and growing up out west knew only as much of their families' histories as the memories their parents had carried with them… which is why genealogy—the relentless pursuit of missing links—has been such a popular pastime in all generations._

 _Sometimes those missing links spontaneously resurrect themselves with surprising consequences… and that's what this story is about._

 _Chapter 1—_ **PROLOGUE**

 **Wednesday, July 1...** A waning gibbous moon riding high over the eastern hills illuminated the faces of the two men winding down on the front porch of a modest ranch house in southeastern Wyoming. They conversed in low tones so as not to disturb the other residents who'd turned in early—the seventy-six-year-old housekeeper and _de facto_ den mother, the seventeen-year-old brother home from school for the summer, and the ten-year-old foster child. Legally, Michael Williams was under Matthew 'Slim' Sherman's sole guardianship, but everyone they knew accepted that Jess Harper had equal rights... just as he was generally regarded as a full partner in the ranch although he wasn't. Not yet, anyway... and that was an issue very much on Slim's mind these days...

 **Three years had gone by** since an exasperated rancher had confronted a belligerent trespasser on his property. On that particular morning, neither could've foreseen the relationship that would evolve from the chance encounter—Jess hadn't been looking to settle down and Slim hadn't had any intention of hiring a hand... couldn't really afford it at the time. But that's where day's end found them. And here they now were—best friends... brothers in all but blood.

Back in December Slim'd first brought up the subject of partnership with his younger brother Andy—technically half-owner of the ranch—who'd been home for the winter holiday break from his Eastern prep school. They'd gone joyriding up into the Vedauwoo Rocks with a picnic lunch lovingly prepared by 'Aunt' Daisy Cooper. Mike'd clamored to go along but Daisy'd cajoled him into staying behind, promising there'd be another time. Somehow she'd sensed, as she always did, that the brothers needed private time together—they had so little of it these days, what with Andy living almost a thousand miles away in St. Louis.

Jess'd been absent for almost two months by then—far away in Florida pursuing a lead to a possible living relative. When it appeared he might not return, Slim was devastated although he hid it well... or so he thought. Then he'd had a conversation with Daisy one night after Andy and Mike had both gone to bed...

" **Stop worrying so, Slim.** Surely he wouldn't abandon his vested interest here?"

"That's just it, Daisy... he doesn't really have one. He doesn't have anything to lose by moving on."

"But I thought..." Daisy was surprised. "I've always assumed... isn't he part owner?"

"No... Andy is, according to our father's will—but I control his half until he reaches his majority. If he decides he doesn't want the ranch, I'll have to either buy out his share or sell out entirely and turn over half the proceeds."

"Andy wouldn't... couldn't... do that to you... could he? He knows how much the ranch means to you!" she exclaimed in shock.

Slim shrugged. "I'd like to think not... but you never know, do you? We've never talked about it but I believe we both understand he's not cut out for cattle ranching and won't be coming back here to live permanently. I wish I _could_ offer Jess a partnership... but it's not just up to me—even if he had the money to buy in. Andy'd have to agree."

"Have you considered discussing this with Andy... about Jess, I mean? I know I'm not as close to Andy as Jonesy is but it's perfectly obvious he cares as much for Jess as you do."

"Yes... I mean, no. He's just a kid, Daisy... too young to understand."

"Sooner than you think that 'kid' will have a legal right to make his own decision about disposition of his portion," Daisy observed sagely. "You should give him the opportunity to think about it before then. I believe in my heart he'll make the right choice for all three of you."

"You're probably right," Slim'd concurred doubtfully.

 **A few days later** there'd been a second conversation around a tiny campfire among the hoodoos...

"So what d'you think?" the older brother queried, hopeful but trying to act casual. Funny, how he hadn't noticed until this visit how much his sibling had matured in the six months since summer break—not so much physically... he was still much shorter than Slim and always would be. And, unlike Slim, he hadn't inherited their father's imposing physique. Andy'd taken more after their mother in build and coloring. Though his demeanor was thoughtful and composed—as Mary Grace's had been—his brown eyes reflected a lively erudition. It was almost painful to accept that Andy was now _almost_ an adult. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and steadier than Slim remembered, too.

"First of all, there's no way I'd ever let you—or make you—give up the ranch. It'll always be home to me, no matter where I end up after I finish school."

A wave of relief swept over Slim at those words.

"The whole idea of me going off to college and having a career is so I'll be able to earn enough money that I'll never need to liquidate my share... right?"

"Well... yes... it is."

"Second... if you really want my opinion..."

"Oh, I do... _I do!_ "

"We should've made Jess partner a long time ago."

 **Slim noted wryly** that this was the first time Andy'd ever employed the plural possessive with regard to ownership of the ranch. "It's not that simple... you can't give away property just like that."

"Shoot! I know _that!_ " the youth continued. "What's the assessed value of our land these days?"

Slim named an amount and Andy whistled, calculating what a third amounted to. "Where would Jess get the money to buy in? He couldn't have _that_ much saved up."

"I know he's got _some_ money in the bank," Slim shrugged, "but—I agree—it can't be enough to cover a straight share."

"We could go corporate and offer him a smaller share as an investment," Andy mused. "That doesn't seem right, though. He's earned better than that. In three years he's put more blood and sweat into this ranch than I ever have in my whole life. If I'd been older and stronger when Pa died, I could've helped out more."

"If you _had_ been older and stronger, I reckon that by now you surely would've..."

"Would've what? Worked as hard as you? Doubt it. There wouldn't have been any college in _my_ future, either..."

Slim was uncomfortable with the direction this tangent had taken but Andy wasn't to be diverted.

"You know, until I went away to school I never understood why you never had time to pal around with me after Ma passed... never appreciated that you've been the one shouldering the burden of responsibility all these years... including me—the whiny kid always complaining about chores and homework."

 **Guilt was only one** of the emotions coursing through Slim at this outpouring of frankness, as everything Andy said contained an element of truth. When Slim'd finally returned home after the war, it'd been to a widowed mother spiraling toward oblivion, a ten-year-old brother in dire need of a firm hand, and a farm in shambles. At that point any future aspirations had been lost to him—he'd had no choice but to take over. By far the most difficult of his new responsibilities had been raising Andy. But today, sitting ac **ro** ss the campfire from his brother, any lingering bitterness and resentment was eclipsed by pride in this fine young man... and satisfaction at his own accomplishment in having shaped and guided him.

Andy was still speaking. "Even if we could just _give_ Jess a third—I'd go along with that, no problem—the thing is, he'd see it as charity and wouldn't accept."

"You're right about that," Slim agreed, struck by his brother's insight into the complexity of Jess Harper's personality. "But it's worth a try, isn't it? I mean, the worst he could do is say 'no', right?"

"I don't see it as charity, myself. I see it as we _need_ him to stay here. Forever. Making him partner would do that."

"There might not be a forever, Andy. If he doesn't come back, it's a moot point anyway."

The younger brother's eyes went still and sorrowful at that... just as they'd always done whenever Jess had taken off in the past.

 _So there's still some of that hero-worshipping little boy in there..._

"Let's give it a couple of months, Andy. I'll get with Lychee and we'll figure out what we need to do." Lindsay 'Lychee' McNutt was the Shermans' half-Chinese family attorney. "But if... _when_... Jess gets back, let's not say anything just yet, okay? It can wait until you're home for the summer."

 **And Jess** _ **had**_ **come back...** just in time for Christmas. The subject of partnership had been shelved and not revisited... other than in Slim's head, anyway. That was then and this was now. The two friends sat side by side, enjoying this balmy summer night and mostly talking about the upcoming Fourth of July celebration in town.

 **Meanwhile… in far-off deepest, darkest Pennsylvania...**

 _ **Ben's Journal, Wednesday, July 1:**_ _Ma's been riding our case again about keeping up these damned journals. Not that she doesn't trust us (she says) but she's making me and Tabbie sit at the table and write while she sits at the other end and catches up on her mending. She doesn't read what we write but just wants to be sure we're doing it. She asked had we identified members of the family so our children and grandchildren and so on down the line will know who was who. When I said 'no', she said 'no time like the present' so here we are..._

 _The matriarch of our family is Gramma Charlie Schirrman, who is 81 and not really our grandmother but our Great-Aunt Charlotte, older sister to our grandfather Matthew. Grampa Matthew died a long time ago right after our real grandmother Clara died when twins Christopher (our Pa) and Louise (our Aunt Weezy) were born. We've always called her Gramma on account of long ago she took in Pa and Weezy and their older sister, our Aunt Dory, and raised them like her own. Gramma's not doing too well and Ma says Thank God she's finally circling the drain. (Ma and Gramma never got on.)_

 _I can see where this can get confusing awfully fast. Ma says it's helpful to include ages so I'm doing that._

 _Bowman Family:_ _Theodora (Dory), 50 and Uncle Bruce, 52, have six children: Melissa, 30; Theodosia, 28; Lucas, 26; twins Marcus and Sarah, 21; and Maxine, 19. Missy, Teddy and Luke are all married with children. Marc and Sarah are rising seniors at Westminster College in New Wilmington and Max just completed her freshman year there. (All three are home for the summer.) (Note: Uncle Bruce is a veterinarian and has a clinic in town.)_

 _McKenzie Family:_ _Louise (Weezy), 48 and Uncle Roland (Rollie, who's late) had five children: Alexander (Alex, who's also late); Edwina, 16; twins Philomena and Arabella, 13; and Gerald, 11. Eddie, Phil, Bella and Gerry are all still at home. (Note: Uncle Rollie and Cousin Alex both died in the war.)_

 _Schirrman Family:_ _Chris, 48, and Eva, 40, have four children: twins Joshua and James, 20; and twins Benjamin and Tabitha, 18. Josh, Jimmy, Ben and Tabbie all still live at home but Jimmy not for long. Tabbie and I will be starting our freshman year at Waynesburg College this fall. (Note: We farm all the land for all three families.)_

 _That's all of us, near as I can figure. Tabbie's no doubt doing a better job—girls are generally better at keeping score. Anyway... another thing Ma says we should mention is the unusually high incidence of twins—something we might want to warn our future spouses about. Getting writer's cramp so think I'll stop now. Hopefully one whole page is enough to satisfy Ma for tonight. Tabbie's already got two pages. What a showoff!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2—_ **A DAY IN THE LIFE**

 **Thursday, July 2...** Between stage runs, Slim and Jess rode fence along with the two boys. No matter how assiduously they kept at it, there was _always_ fencing in need of repair somewhere. Daisy'd put in a request for rabbits, should they come across any—she'd just received in the mail a new cookbook of international recipes and was dying to try out a German dish called 'hasenpfeffer.' Jess knew where there was a run and they were fortunate enough to bag three spring kits now plump enough to eat… or _un_ fortunate, from the boys' point of view—they didn't mind eating rabbit but abhorred the process of getting it to the table. After the four o'clock stage had come and gone, Slim and Jess absorbed themselves in minor chores around the home place while Andy took Mike for a swim.

Although there'd been the usual ongoing unpleasant incidents during the past six months, this week had been relatively quiet. When Andy observed that life on the ranch had become as boring as it'd been before Jess had come to stay, Mike begged for stories about the 'after' time. One would think a child who'd witnessed the loss of his family to violence would be averse to hearing about blood and gore—but no, he wanted to know all about the times his guardians'd been beaten up or shot... and the men they'd killed. Andy was careful to refrain from relaying any gruesome details in Slim's and/or Jess' presence... and most certainly never where Aunt Daisy could hear.

With the bunnies dressed and hung in the root cellar and outdoor chores completed, Slim and Jess replenished firewood in the parlor and kitchen. Earlier in the week Slim'd had to slaughter a calf that had broken its leg, so supper was a hearty shepherd's pie made with fresh veal rather than lamb (which was in short supply in sheep-hating southeastern Wyoming). Afterwards, Daisy conscripted the boys to help clear the table and wash, dry and put away dishes.

Daisy continued bustling around her domain, preparing items for Friday's breakfast before settling down in her rocker by the fireplace to darn socks—another never-ending task. Andy hustled Mike off to the washroom for their evening ablutions before bedtime. Slim and Jess broke down and cleaned the shotguns they'd used that day. Before heading to the dual showers behind the chicken coop they took a stroll around the immediate premises to ensure all was in order. Then they sat out on the front porch for a while. By ten o'clock coals were banked in the fireplace and kitchen stove, lanterns and oil lamps extinguished, and everyone in his (and her) appointed bed.

 **Upon her arrival and inclusion** into the household, Daisy'd been thrilled to discover the indoor bathing facility that doubled as a laundry room in inclement weather. Tacked onto the back of the house some years prior, it featured an enormous oval galvanized tin tub where one could enjoy full immersion in comfort and privacy. As a former wartime nurse in military hospitals, Daisy had very stringent opinions regarding personal hygiene.

When Slim'd installed the kitchen sink and indoor pump, he'd also run a line to the 'washroom' and another handpump so that water didn't have to be hauled in by bucket. A small pot-bellied cast-iron stove provided hot water and heat as needed. Of course, in the summer months it also made the room miserably hot. Slim and Jess made use of the cold-water outdoor showers as long as they could stand it. Daisy'd been agitating for the addition of a 'water closet' as she so hated trekking out to the privy, where lurked spiders, snakes, bats and who knew what-all other vermin. Slim'd promised to give it some thought but wasn't really in favor of the idea.

A new and not especially welcome edict under Missus Cooper's House Rules had been... _The Daily Bath_. The two men had been accustomed to bathing 'as needed'—usually on Saturdays—which wasn't near often enough by Daisy's standards. Now they bathed _almost_ every day—every _other_ day when they could get away with it, which wasn't often. The woman's scent receptors—keener than any bloodhound's—could register a smelly armpit all the way from the corral to the kitchen. She'd been known to meet them at the door with store-bought bars of Procter  & Gamble soap, a stack of towels and a finger pointing toward the bathroom. Mike's aversion to bathing at _any_ time was soon overcome by sheer force of will by 'Aunt' Daisy.

When Andy'd made his first visit home after Mike and Daisy'd moved in, he'd endured a lot of ribbing about his unconcerned acceptance of the daily bath rule. He explained that where he lived in St. Louis—in a house with eight females and only one other male—it was a given that everyone bathed _every single day._ Thereafter, whenever he was home on vacation, Andy volunteered to oversee Mike's evening bath and never had a bit of opposition.

Over time other modern innovations were instituted by housemother Daisy—such as commercially-manufactured bristle toothbrushes and Colgate's creme dentifrice in a jar, and an odor-defying body powder compounded by Daisy herself by mixing cornstarch, talc and crushed ammonium alum crystals. Dealing with her thinning, baby-fine silver hair, Daisy experimented with various concoctions including liquified castile soap, apple cider vinegar, lemon juice, and anything else that popped into her mind as having beneficial properties. Slim and Jess often complained they'd been reduced to the status of laboratory rats... but yielded with good grace to her entreaties to at least _try_ her inventions.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Thursday, July 2:**_ _Gramma Charlie kicked the bucket last night. Doctor Spurling says it was heart failure. Ma said it was about damned time. That sure puts a damper on our Fourth of July celebration. On the other hand, Ma says it's convenient because most of our kin are already here or on their way for the holiday get-together plus Jimmy's quickly-arranged (read:_ _shotgun_ _) wedding to Edith Anne Gunderson, so we can get it all done in one fell swoop. In the meantime, we've got Gramma on ice. Literally. In a temporary coffin in the icehouse. Which is some more of a nuisance because every time Ma sends one of us to go in and chip her some more ice, we have to move Gramma out of the way. Fortunately, she doesn't weigh much. Pa says the man who makes real caskets is backlogged so we're on a waiting list. Hope it's a short one._

 _Ma and Tabbie, the aunts and the girl cousins are scrubbing the house from top to bottom to get it ready for the out-of-town relatives. I don't see why they can't stay in the hotel in town instead of piling in on top of us._

 _Us menfolk were told to get out from underfoot, so we did. Pa and Uncle Bruce told Ma and Aunt Dory they were going visiting over to Reverend Merrill's but they're really playing billiards and drinking beer at O'Henry's pub. Brother Josh and the older boy cousins rode off to look at some horses for sale. Brother Jimmy's up in the hayloft with Edith Anne but I guess that doesn't matter as he can't get her any_ _more_ _pregnant than she already is and they're getting hitched in three days anyway._

 _I was 'volunteered' to babysit the younger cousins and second cousins but that's okay. We're at the lake and they're all minding me pretty well... not going too far out in the water. Pretty soon we'll have the picnic lunch Ma and them fixed for us and then they'll have to nap for an hour. Those are the rules. In the meantime I can get today's journal-writing out of the way and I have a great book to read—'Around the World in Eighty Days' by Jules Verne. It's very pleasant, sitting here in the shade under a chestnut tree, close enough I can dive in if anyone gets into trouble, and this sure gets me out of a lot chores._


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3—_ **CELEBRATING THE FOURTH**

 **Saturday, July 4...** Avery Jackson (proprietor of Jackson's—formerly Lowenstein's—Livery Stable and Blacksmith Shop) and his son Orville (journeyman farrier) were coming to look after the ranch while the Sherman family attended the Independence Day celebration twelve miles away in town. Neither Jackson was keen on being around pyrotechnics or any other form of explosives—they'd had quite enough of that during the war, before they'd been emancipated. Therefore, their business was closed for the day.

Before Slim'd got the hang of basic farriery, the previous owner of the blacksmith shop had come out every Saturday to do the coach horses. Nowadays Avery only came out on request, for shoeing problems Slim couldn't manage or—as today—if he needed a favor, which Avery was only too happy to grant. After all, it'd been the former Union officer who'd fetched the former slave west in the first place and got him the position at the livery, where he'd found a new life as a free citizen.

Overland having decreed a travel moratorium in observance of the holiday, there'd be no coach run today but the father and son blacksmiths were familiar with the ranch's routine and would find plenty enough else to keep themselves busy. Plus, they were looking forward to tucking into whatever victuals Missus Cooper would've prepared for them... not that Missus Jackson wasn't an excellent cook in her own right. Martha was a freewoman from New York City who'd been educated in the African Free Schools there and learned to cook from a real chef at the upscale hotel where she'd worked before being lured away to be head cook at the Ivinson family mansion in Laramie, Wyoming.

There'd never yet been a Fourth of July occasion in the frontier town that hadn't involved alcohol-fueled bad behavior—pranks and practical jokes gone wrong, fistfights and reckless discharging of firearms... not to mention accelerated delinquency among the juveniles. Avery pleaded with his wife to come along—away from the predominantly white festivities—but Martha declined, insisting their two younger children had been looking forward to it for ages and she wasn't about to deprive them of the fun. However, she promised to stick close by the Shermans—safety wasn't always a given as they were one of only two colored families in town.

 **After a hasty but filling breakfast before dawn,** the spring wagon was loaded with boxes of Daisy's contributions to the domestic competitions that would be taking place... bake-offs and box lunches, pickles and preserves, cakes and pies. For the first time she'd also be entering exquisitely tatted antimacassars and doilies and embroidered pillowslips in the needlework contest—Slim and Jess often wondered where she found the time to do fancy needlework. A straw pallet was made up under the seat for Mike to snuggle under a quilt. A coin was tossed to see who'd drive and who'd go horseback—Slim lost.

The Jacksons rolled up just as Slim was getting Daisy settled on the bench. Mike'd gone right back to sleep in his straw nest. Over by the corral, Andy was questioning Jess's decision to not enter Traveller in any of this year's races.

"He's gettin' on, kid—somewhere around fifteen, I reckon," Jess pointed out. "Still the best horse I ever had but he ain't quick on his feet like he useta be... kinda like me."

Andy started to protest, until the sudden realization of Jess' approaching birthday hit him like a ton of bricks. When they'd celebrated Slim's thirty-year milestone, Andy'd somehow overlooked the fact that _that_ meant Jess was getting older, too. Until now, the idea of Jess Harper _slowing down_ had never entered his head.

 **Riding ahead of the wagon** next to Jess, Andy contemplated what else could possibly be bothering Jess. By the time the man'd finally got home just before Christmas, Andy'd had only a week left of his winter break before having to return to St. Louis. He'd been anxious to spend as much of it as he could catching up, but Jess'd been unusually subdued and uncommunicative other than presenting his woeful tale of the quest to locate his missing older brother—successful in that what was lost was found, but unsuccessful in that the brother passed away shortly thereafter. Andy and Slim and Daisy'd talked about that one day when Jess and Mike were out of the house. Daisy'd said, well, you certainly can't expect Jess to be cheerful even though it's Christmastime. She had a point. Andy couldn't begin to imagine how he'd feel if he'd lost Slim for twenty years, only to find him again... and watch him die forty-eight hours later. Slim'd consoled him with the opinion that, by the time summer vacation rolled around and Andy was once again home, Jess would no doubt be back to his old self.

That was over six months ago, though... surely he should've got over it by now... but apparently he hadn't. Andy recalled the conversation he'd had with Slim then, and wondered if now—or soon, anyway—would be a good time to bring up the proposed partnership arrangement. Surely _that_ would bring Jess out of the doldrums. He made a mental note to ask Slim about it later on, when they could talk privately.

 **Andy wasn't the only one** concerned with Jess' state of mind. Slim and Daisy'd also noticed this creeping introversion and were equally clueless as to the cause. He appeared to be in good health and hadn't been seriously injured in months, but his personality seemed to be regressing to the withdrawn loner he'd once been. It hadn't escaped either of them that, while Jess had described the events of his two-month sojourn in Florida, he'd stuck to the facts. Not once had he come close to sharing what he'd _felt_ about what had happened there—and there was no way it couldn't have had a profound emotional impact on him. Daisy had tried to draw him out on several occasions but he'd remained evasive. Slim figured that as long as whatever was bothering him wasn't interfering with his duties or causing disruption in the household, it was best left alone. Daisy disagreed vehemently.

"You have to talk to him, dear. You _must!_ "

"What do want me to do, Daisy? Choke it out of him?" Slim grumbled. "It took the better part of a year before he ever opened up about what happened to his family when he was a kid."

"He'll drive himself mad if he continues to keep his emotions bottled up like that," the old woman persisted. "Have you given any further thought to that partnership business?"

"Yes, Daisy... not a week goes by that I _haven't_ thought about it. The time's not right..."

"Hmmpff! And when will _that_ be? When hell freezes over?"

 _She'll drive_ me _mad if she doesn't leave off pestering me about it…_

 **Just as they were passing** the cutoff to the Bartlett place, here came the neighbor's wagon... overflowing with noisy progeny. Both wagons halted to effect a passenger swap—Missus Bartlett for Slim. Daisy _could_ drive, but the rancher's wife was younger, stronger, and more experienced with horses. The two women had become great friends and Slim was grateful that Daisy had another female living close by—if you could call five miles close. Both were pleased with the opportunity to chat for the next seven miles and Slim was just as happy to exchange man talk with Garland Bartlett.

Mounted and leading Colonel, his father's prize Morgan stallion, Tommy Bartlett forged ahead to catch up with his boyhood friend Andy. With six months worth of news to exchange, the pair gradually fell back, leaving Jess to ride ahead alone.

 **Had he known of everyone else's concern** for his mental well-being, Jess would've been surprised. He wasn't dwelling on his creeping advance into middle age... or the loss of his brother... or any other depressing aspect of life. He was, in fact, simply enjoying the ride on what promised to be a fine, fair day... with no chores and—this year especially—lots of new and interesting activities at the festival.

Though Wyoming Territory was still in its infancy and statehood yet a gleam in Governor John Allen Campbell's eye, the town fathers of Laramie had visions firmly planted in the future. The advent of the transcontinental railroad had brought prosperity to the little prairie settlement. Almost every adult resident was an émigré from the settled eastern portions of the nation, with fond remembrances of the county and state fairs of their youths. They had great plans for establishing their own annual fair tradition and this year was the kickoff, to be combined—for the time being—with the July Fourth jubilee. The event had been heavily advertised for months and they were expecting a phenomenal turnout.

Of course, there weren't—as yet—any designated fairgrounds or purpose-built structures to house exhibits, but that didn't deter them from organizing the biggest and best-ever citywide event. They'd put out an appeal to everyone in possession of a tent to volunteer it for the occasion. Side streets were cordoned off to vehicular traffic and horses so that pedestrians could safely perambulate among vendors and exhibitors sheltered under canvas.

Main Street was reserved for the parade and horse races. Shooting contests and livestock exhibitions would take place in the stockyards by the railway station. The grange hall would serve as the venue for domestic and culinary arts. Fine art was to be displayed in the courthouse. Prizes were to be awarded—ribbons and medals and silver dollars.

The city fathers had made a feeble attempt at getting the saloons and cathouses closed down for the day but had quickly backed down after encountering a tidal wave of opposition from unattached male residents, who outnumbered family men by a considerable margin.

 **Yes... it was gonna be a jim-dandy day!** Jess was looking forward to participating in at least one of the shooting contests—not the quick-draw, though... that was just inviting trouble by reminding folks of what he _used_ to be. There'd be cider-sampling and tasty treats galore... and new, fresh-faced girls to meet. Depending on how adventurous he felt later in the day, he might even sign up for one of the more traditional 'cowboy' contests... cutting and calf roping, and steer wrestling and the like. On the other hand, he had half a mind to stay over for the sort of Saturday night entertainment he'd not indulged in for quite some time... and he certainly didn't want to be all sweaty and nasty for _that_. Too bad Slim would have to escort Daisy and the boys back to the ranch when the festivities wound down. It'd been a _very_ long time since he and Slim'd hoisted a few together... an even longer time since they'd engaged in a satisfactory saloon brawl. Were they even still up to that, Jess idly wondered.

 **The streets were already thronged** by the time the Sherman and Bartlett contingents arrived. A brass band was assembling on a dais near the courthouse. They threaded their way through back alleys to the rear entrance of Jackson's Livery where Martha awaited them with her children. Avery'd invited Slim to feel free to make use of the premises as a rest stop throughout the day. Slim, Jess and Andy arranged to alternate shifts with Garland and Tommy Bartlett so that at least one man would be accompanying the women and smaller children as they made their rounds.

A full array of activities was on tap for the kiddies: a puppet show, watermelon-eating and seed-spitting contests, greased piglet catching, and foot races of all descriptions including wheelbarrow, three-legged and the ever popular egg-and-spoon. Finding themselves in need of restorative naps at one point in the afternoon, the ladies and little ones repaired to the Jackson domicile where they could rest without male oversight. The men and older boys were then free to attend events geared to masculine interests—the flat race (which Tommy won astride the Morgan), a harness race featuring teams and buckboards, and draft horses contending for strongest sledge-pullers. An impromptu rodeo took place at the stockyards.

All in all it was as splendid an event as promised. After the fireworks display, the Shermans and Bartletts loaded up and headed home. Marilyn and Daisy were both pleased as punch, having won blue ribbons in the preserves and handicrafts divisions, respectively.

Jess'd fully intended to linger in town that evening… sit in on a couple of poker games, maybe enjoy an hour's interlude with one of the new gals at McGuire's. However, having concluded he had no energy left for horizontal calisthenics, he elected to head for home as well.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Monday, July 6:**_ _Well, that was_ _some_ _humdinger of a weekend! Fourth of July picnic on Saturday, a funeral on Sunday morning and a wedding that afternoon. I believe everyone in the world we're related to showed up for all three events. The house was packed to the rafters with women and kids and all us menfolk had to sleep in the bunkhouse with the hired hands. My bed smelled like baby pee and puke when I got it back._

 _None of us kids were present when Gramma Charlie's will was read this afternoon after the out-of-town relatives finally left. Ma says we inherit one-third of the farm and the house, as we've always lived here ever since she and Pa married and all us kids were born here. Gramma never married or had kids of her own so Pa and Aunt Weezy and Aunt Dory each got a third of the acreage. Dory and Weezy don't really need the money right now so they've agreed Pa can continue to farm all of it for the time being. I know my folks are relieved about that._


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4—_ **A BIG FISH AND A BIGGER PROPOSITION**

 **Tuesday, July 7...** With routine restored, Jess' post-fête good mood prevailed… to everyone's relief. Daisy'd caught him whistling and smiled to herself. Andy'd got him to laugh at some new naughty jokes he'd learned from Tommy on the ride home Saturday night. Slim had high—though reserved—hopes that his friend was returning to the sunny side of life. Even Mike noticed that Jess was more to receptive to teasing and tickling.

Tuesday brought another cloudless day, albeit considerably warmer. Slim and Jess were alone on the premises, Daisy having requested Andy to drive her and Mike over to Bartlett's to see the newest grandchild and deliver presents. Marilyn couldn't sew or knit or crochet worth a toot, she said. Knowing that all the baby clothes on hand had already been cycled through at least four or five usages, Daisy'd secretly been knitting and sewing new layettes.

The four o'clock stage was history. As Slim and Jess were turning out the previous team into the big pasture, Slim suggested they take off a couple of hours and go fishing.

"Now? When we still got chores to do?" Jess was incredulous. His buddy lived by the 'can see to cain't see' credo of ranch work. He didn't seem to grasp the concept of 'leisure time.'

"Yeah. You heard me... _fishing..._ you interested?" Slim grinned.

"Is a frog's ass watertight?" Jess lobbed back.

 **After gathering their gear** and grubbing up a pail of nightcrawlers from under Andy's rabbit hutch, they set off toward the best fishing spot on the whole property—a ten-minute walk down to where the creek flowing near the house widened into a pool backed up behind an abandoned beaver dam. As this was also Andy's favorite swimming hole, he kept the grass scythed along the grassy bank whenever he was home for the summer. There weren't any venomous water snakes, but rattlers were attracted by tall grass. Keeping it mowed discouraged their presence.

After first checking for lurking reptiles, the pair stretched out with their backs against a convenient log and flicked out their cane poles and cork bobbers. Lazy man's fishing, Jess called it, when your aim was to relax and kill time rather than catch dinner. He loved fly fishing but that involved too much walking around and wading.

Jess sighed with contentment. It wasn't that he was averse to hard work... but he felt there ought to be a more equitable balance between work and play than what Slim customarily allowed. At first they didn't speak, just watched their bobbing corks and waited for the first strike.

" **You sure been** in a good mood lately. Got you a new girl or something?" Slim remarked lightly.

"You know I ain't—not since Carrie, anyway. How're you an' Bea gettin' along these days? You ever gonna pop the question?"

For almost two years Slim'd been keeping casual company with the town's head librarian, Beatrice Evrard. Initially he'd thought something might come of it, but she'd made it plain she wasn't looking to marry—not yet. And anyway, he so rarely was able to get away to see her...

"No. Probably won't."

"Why not? You're gettin' long in the tooth an' ain't likely to do better."

"Lotsa reasons. Number one, Bea's a city gal all the way, not interested in trading her independence for life on a ranch. Number two, a wife'd disrupt our current living arrangements and I like things just the way they are."

"True 'nough. Things'd hafta change. Me an' Daisy livin' here, for one. We'd hafta get our own place."

"What? No! I was thinking more along the lines of adding onto the house—or building a bigger one so we could all stay together."

"So you _have_ been thinkin' on marryin'?" Jess accused playfully.

"Yeah, sure... every now and then. Haven't you?"

"Don't look like family life's in the cards for me. But if I ever took me a wife, I'd want a home of our own—on our own land."

Slim chuckled. "Obviously that's not going to happen any time soon... not on what I'm paying you."

Jess laughed. "That's for damn sure."

 **Apparently Slim's lucky stars** were in alignment that day as the door'd just opened to the two topics he really wanted to discuss.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure... I guess so..." Jess glanced at him quizzically. "You got somethin' on your mind?"

"That was what I was about to ask _you._ "

"Whaddya mean? I ain't got nothin' on my mind..."

"You've been... well... you haven't been quite yourself these past six months... since... you know... Florida..." Slim was loathe to bring all that up again but felt it necessary to get it into the open and out of the way.

"I ain't? Don't know why you'd think that. Don't feel no different."

"We were thinking maybe what happened had a deeper effect than you're even aware of."

"We _who?_ " There was a little bit of an edge there.

"Me... Daisy... Andy... we've been worried about you."

"Well _don't._ Ain't nothin' to worry about. I'm fine." Jess' tone was clipped. "Why don't you just go ahead an' spit out whatever you got to say..."

 **Slim took a few minutes** to remove his boots so he could sit cross-legged, facing Jess in a more dignified manner. Jess did the same, nervously anticipating a serious conversation (but… if only he'd known… not nearly as nervous as Slim).

"Promise you won't get mad before I'm through, okay?"

"Sounds like I'm gonna hear somethin' I ain't gonna like."

"Maybe. Probably. You can ask questions but don't yell or stomp off. When I'm done I've got something very important to ask you."

"Fire away, then."

"When I say 'we', that means just Daisy and me... not Andy, okay? You've been preoccupied ever since getting back... and we believe there's a lot more to the story than what you've let on."

"Already done told you everythin' what happened down there. There ain't no money comin' to me, if that's what you wanna know. It's over an' done with," Jess rebutted defensively, but his eyes told otherwise. Slim knew it... and Jess knew he knew it.

"Let me tell you what we _do_ know, my friend. We know you've got a post office box where you've been getting mail from law firms in Seattle and that Bogtown place or whatever it's called."

"You got no call to be messin' with my mail..." Jess growled.

Slim continued smoothly. " _And…_ letters from West Florida Seminary in Tallahassee—I'm guessing that's where your niece is?"

"That's my private personal business."

"Yes... it _is_... and we're not questioning why you've chosen to not share with us. That's not the issue here."

"Then whadda _you_ care? What's the big deal?"

"Calm down! The big deal is... we're wondering if maybe you have intentions of going back down there to live. If you recall, you _did_ mention in one of your letters that you might be staying."

"Thought I'd hafta—at the time. But it all got took care of so I came on home."

"And believe me... we're all grateful for that. You're indisputably and indispensably part of our family... you should know that by now."

Jess didn't answer but the thunder was leaving his face.

"So are you planning on leaving us or what?"

"No, I ain't. What was that 'very important' question you was gonna ask?"

 **Before Slim could move forward** with his agenda, his cane pole quivered violently as the bobber disappeared below the water. Lunging for it before it could be dragged off, he lost his footing and rolled ass over teakettle into the pool. He came up sputtering goop and decorated with anacharis and duckweed. Jess was doubled over with laughter that immediately turned to excitement as he realized Slim still had a deathgrip on the wildly whipping pole.

"Don't leggo... hang on... you got a whopper on the line!"

Jess was dying to jump in and render assistance, but Slim was holding his own while trying to maintain his balance in waist-deep water. As the unseen monster fish gradually gave up the fight, Jess couldn't stand it another second. He waded in with the catch net.

Slim's prize, firmly hooked through the lower jaw, turned out to be a cutthroat trout... the largest either man had ever seen, much less reeled in. The astounded angler needed both hands to lift it up just long enough to ascertain it was a gravid female and to admire her colorful markings—dark-spotted yellow-gold body with a pale orange belly and verdigris back, and brilliant orange-red jaw slashes.

"This old gal deserves to live another day... at least long enough to spawn."

Jess agreed. He often practiced catch-and-release if he judged a fish too small, or if it was a gravid female or one of reproductive age. He wouldn't have known the term 'ecological responsibility' but he had common sense. Prime breeding stock was valuable—whether fish, horses or cattle.

Lowering the fish gently back into the water, Slim asked for the wire nippers he knew his companion had in a pocket. After clipping the barb and gingerly working loose the hook, he slowly swirled the fish back and forth until she recovered. They both reverently watched her swim away before clambering back onto dry land. The commotion having no doubt scared away every other fish in the pool, they decided to give up on the idea for the day.

"Musta been thirty inches, at least," Jess said as they reassembled their gear. "Bet she'da gone ten, twelve pounds..."

"And here we are with no one to brag to... no one'd ever believe us!" Slim mourned.

" **You ready to mosey on back to the house?"**

"Yeah... but ain't you forgettin' somethin'?" Jess had his head cocked with his thumbs jammed in his pockets.

"What's that?"

"That 'very important question'?"

"Oh... _that_... maybe we'd better sit for a spell. Leastways long enough to dry off some. Daisy'll have our hides if we track mud inside."

"You're stallin'... but you're right about Daisy." Jess sat straddling the log, indicating to Slim to do the same so that they faced each other. "Now... what's stuck in your craw? You got me curious."

Slim was a competent card player, but even on his best day his so-called 'poker face' couldn't hold a candle to Jess'. He'd rehearsed his proposition so many times... and now he couldn't remember a doggone word.

"Before I grow a beard an' die would be good..." Jess encouraged, not sure he wanted—or was ready—to hear what unhappy news might be forthcoming. Had Slim found out something else about his checkered past that was about to unravel their friendship? There were so _many_ bad deeds to choose from... and he hadn't disclosed even half of them. Didn't intend to, either. Hell... for the past three years he'd been trying to _forget_ , pretending to himself they'd never happened. But... the look on Slim's face wasn't the one he wore when he was angry or disappointed. It took all the determination Jess could muster to simply sit still and wait.

" **I'll get right to point.** We—Andy and me this time, not Daisy—we want to make you a partner in the ranch... if you're interested."

"Come again?"

"You're not under any obligation, of course..."

Jess was gobsmacked into muteness. Never in his wildest dreams, could he have anticipated something like this.

Slim watched the mask of wariness descend over his friend's features—something he hadn't seen for a while.

"Say something, Jess..."

"I... I don't know what to say..."

"Take all the time you need to think about it. If you're not ready for this, we'll understand..."

"What's the catch?" Jess finally choked out in disbelief.

"No catch... one-third of the ranch is yours... if you want it."

"If this's your idea of a joke..."

"No joke. I'm serious."

"Nobody gives away a third of his ranch to a saddle tramp."

Slim pretended to look around. "No saddle tramps around here that I know of. Just an honest, hard-working, good-hearted friend who's saved my life and Andy's and Jonesy's many times over... _and_ the ranch in the bargain. And it's not exactly 'free'... you'll be taking on one-third of the responsibility as well. No more steady paycheck. Everything we make gets plowed back into the ranch, except for a small percentage for personal allowances contingent on what we earn from the stage business, and what we pay Daisy or anyone else we have to hire. With a good year you'll be able to afford new boots or saddles... each of us will. In lean times you'll do without. It's as simple as that. You see what I'm saying?"

"When'd you come up with this lame-brain idea?" Jess queried, far from convinced. "You ain't thought this through."

"More than you can imagine. Andy and I talked it over last winter while you were gone. He's in favor and so am I. Lychee and I've been working on the legalities for months."

"Slim... look... that's a mighty fine an' generous offer, but you know I ain't got the money to buy in. I got _some_ money put by, sure, but nowhere near enough... never will have."

"You're not getting it, Jess... you've _already_ bought in with what Lychee calls _sweat_ equity. You know what that is?"

"Not really..."

"It means you've put three years' worth of your life into building up this ranch. We were hanging by a thread when you came along. Without you we might not've been able to make a go of it. Can't you get that through your thick skull?"

Jess was nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah... maybe... I think so... but..."

Slim swung a long leg over the log and stood up. "I know it's a real big step for you, but like I said, think on it some. No rush, no pressure, okay?"

"Okay."

All the way back Jess walked behind Slim with his gaze fixed on those broad shoulders, pondering on this exceptional turn of events. It was as momentous a decision as... as getting married. Was he willing to give up his independence, his freedom, to be tied to the land? Yeah... he'd certainly have to give it some thought. A LOT of thought...

 _ **Ben's Journal, Tuesday, July 7:**_ _Boy howdy! Just when it looked like the dust was settling, something even more exciting has come up. But I'm getting ahead of myself._

 _Ma and them decided this morning would be a good time to divvy up Gramma Charlie's personal belongings so everyone can have keepsakes. Aunt Weezy and Aunt Dory each have their own nice houses so they don't need any furniture or anything like that. Mostly they chose doodads and dustcatchers and whatnots that Ma was secretly pleased to get rid of anyway. She says Gramma was a hoarder. She also says Gramma had tacky taste in home furnishings and now she—Ma, that is—can redecorate the way_ _she's_ _always wanted._

 _This afternoon they took a notion to tackle the attic. I've already been up there a million times and never found anything of interest. Mostly it's crappy old furniture, motheaten clothes and broken toys, which Ma declared once and for all had to be hauled down and thrown out, given away or burned. Everything's covered with dust and cobwebs and smells like mouse turds._

 _Well, they found the old trunk hidden way back in a corner and made a big to-do over it after peeking inside and finding it was full of journals, diaries, old letters and such._ _Why_ _is beyond me. I looked inside once and all I saw besides a lot of yellow paper and mildewed leather was a bunch of dead silverfish and cockroaches. Yuck._

 _Josh and Jimmy made themselves scarce as usual, so Uncle Bruce and Pa and I were conscripted to tote all that_ _shit_ _junk downstairs, through the hall and out into the yard. The last thing to come down was that trunk and, boy, was it ever heavy! You wouldn't think paper could weigh that much. We carried it into Pa's study so they could go through it later. Afterwards we were all of us filthy and needed baths, so Uncle Bruce and the aunts went home (our houses are all within sight of one another). After supper, they came back and trooped into the study to have a go at that trunk._

 _Anyway, I was stretched out on the parlor sofa, reading, and the door to the study was open. The adults couldn't see me but I could hear them. They were getting all hot and bothered about something they'd found, so I got up to ask what all the hollering was about. Ma got up and said it was none of my beeswax and shut the door in my face. I snuck down later that night after everyone'd left again and Ma and Pa were asleep... but he'd locked the door to his study! He NEVER does that! If they think they can keep secrets from ME, they've got another think coming!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5—_ **A TRUNKFUL OF DECEIT**

 **Wednesday, July 8...** For the second evening in a row, three siblings gathered in the study of a Pennsylvania farmhouse to examine how—and, more importantly, _why_ —they'd been so thoroughly hoodwinked for almost fifty years by a spiteful old woman who'd professed to love them so dearly. Had it not been for her diaries and that damning bundle of letters, neatly bound with faded blue ribbon, they would never have been the wiser, would have gone to their graves believing their father had deserted them as babies... and that he'd died long ago. At two years of age, Eudora hadn't quite understood where or why papa had gone away, but had soon forgotten him entirely. Twins Christopher and Louise had never known him at all.

The letters were of all shapes and sizes with postmarks dating from 1825 through mid-1863 and spanning the nation from South Carolina to the territories of Oregon and Wyoming. Over a hundred altogether. It was decided that—in order to speed up the investigation—one would read aloud to the others, starting with the oldest missive. With the strongest voice from her years as lead contralto in Kutztown's First Presbyterian Church choir, Dory Schirrman Bowman was elected to read. Weezy Schirrman McKenzie would be correlating dates with diary entries. Chris Schirrman would scribe a timeline as they went along. Spouses Bruce Bowman and Eva Jacobs Schirrman provided the audience.

Unbeknownst to them, eighteen-year-old Benjamin Schirrman sat cross-legged on the floor of his room directly above, where he could easily overhear—through a heat register in the floor—every single word spoken below. He'd discovered its existence years ago when his parents were indulging in a rare, especially loud argument in the privacy of the study, where they customarily retreated to discuss matters unsuitable for prying little ears.

When younger, he'd disregarded the muffled voices filtering through the heavy rug obscuring the vent (and defeating its purpose), but on _that_ day he'd rolled it back out of curiosity... just to see if he could suss out the particulars of the altercation. From that day forward, that spot on the floor was his private listening post, his source of fascinating and often illegitimate intel. Luckily, so far he'd been able to keep this a secret from his sister Tabitha.

This was Ben's second night eavesdropping and had he ever got an earful so far! From the rising commentary he could just about visualize the incredulous looks on their faces at the revelations coming to light... and feel their puzzlement and anger.

 _ **Gramma had lied to them!**_ She'd led them to believe her brother—their father, Matthew Elijah Schirrman—had disappeared in 1825 or thereabouts, along with his older brother, Benjamin Franklin Schirrman. Why in Heaven's name had she hung onto a half century's worth of perfidious evidence? Did she think she'd never die and it'd never be discovered?

 _ **What they already knew...**_ The family farm had been subdivided to the point where it could no longer sustain the entire extended Schirrman clan. As the two youngest of nine, Matt and Ben had always known there would be no inheritance for them... that they'd have to strike out on their own as several of their older brothers had already done. The older sisters had long married out. The sole remaining unmarried daughter, Charlotte kept house for her father until his death, and finished raising the two youngest boys to adulthood.

An astute businesswoman, Charlotte hung onto the lion's share of the acreage and leased operations to those older brothers who'd remained in the area. Matt and Ben weren't lacking in role models and learned farmwork from their uncles. When Matt married Clara Bowdoin, Charlotte—in an uncharacteristic display of generosity—invited the newlyweds to continue living with her. Their first child was born the following year.

As far as Eudora and twins Christopher and Louisa were concerned, Charlotte Schirrman _was_ Gramma. By the time they were old enough to understand that she wasn't _really_ their grandmother but was actually their great-aunt, it didn't matter. During childbirth, their biological mother, Clara had succumbed to an aortic aneurysm. The quick-thinking midwife, realizing there was another fetus, had immediately performed an emergency Caesarean section to successfully deliver the second infant. The thirty-four-year-old spinster Charlotte had then taken in her youngest brother's three children because he'd rejected the responsibility and run away. _That's what they had always been told..._

 _ **What they would come to know...**_ At the tender age of twenty-one, Matt Schirrman was unable to deal with the gravity of the situation and unprepared to cope with three babies on his own. Giving over the children's care to his much older sister had seemed expedient at the time—an action he'd bitterly regret in years to come.

Matt and Clara had been planning to relocate to South Carolina when she'd fallen pregnant again. He'd already lined up an attractive position as assistant overseer on a cotton plantation on Johns Island, just south of Charleston. Ben, still single, elected to go with them, confident of obtaining some sort of employment in the city. They were expecting to be able to make the transition as soon as the new baby was old enough to travel. But Clara was experiencing an extremely difficult pregnancy and her doctor prescribed complete bedrest. Still, she continued to decline. When her time came, she was already in a critically weakened state.

Matt sent word to his future employer of the reason for the delay in taking up his new job. The man very kindly sent back that he understood, that he would hold the position as long as he could... but not forever. Matt desperately needed the income—they were already living with his sister Charlotte and more or less dependent on her largesse. With Clara gone, he had no recourse but to leave his children there in Kutztown and proceed to John's Island. He vowed he would return for them as soon as he was properly settled... and had enough funds put by to hire a housekeeper and a wetnurse. Ben found himself a clerking job in a Charleston bank.

 **While Matt's intentions were honorable,** they weren't entirely practical. Aside from the slave quarters, there was no infrastructure on the island that permitted single family residency—no community in which a white family could take part. No store, no church, no school, no social life whatsoever. He lived in a barracks environment along with other sub-overseers—that had been part of the contract. They were well paid and their daily needs provided for, but only once a month were they allowed to take a boat over to the village on the mainland to make private purchases.

Matt had no political leanings one way or another. He was neither pro-slavery nor an abolitionist... but he _was_ a pacifist. No one in his hometown had ever owned slaves—white European indentured servants, yes... in his father's time... but no Africans. With no prior experience and little prejudice, he treated the slaves under his command much as he would any of the hired or indentured whites on his family's farm. Knowing when they were well off, 'his' people responded by working harder and more profitably than any of the other overseers'. Not once did he ever have to resort to the whip. There were no beatings, ever.

Having advanced in rank after marrying the boss' daughter, Ben disavowed any association with the Kutztown faction although he and Matt remained in contact.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Wednesday, July 8:**_ _Dadblame it... they've only read six letters so far. If only they'd quit stopping to gab and get on with it already! It appears Grampa and Gramma were getting along okay, with him sending a letter and some money every month and her answering him. She must have done because he makes references to things she's written._

 _So Grampa Matt went South to be an overseer on a cotton plantation. Wonder what that was like, living on an island with hundreds of slaves? Why didn't Pa and Dory and Weezy ever go to live with him? Of course, then none of us kids would even be here because they would have married other people when they grew up and had different children._

 _Was Grampa still living there when war came and, if so, which side was he on? At the rate they're dragging out those letters it'll be weeks before we find out._

 _I was only eight when the war ended so I don't remember much about it, except of course, Aunt Weezy was widowed when Uncle Rollie was killed at Antietam and their oldest son, my cousin Alex, died at Vicksburg. It was a real sad time for our family. We made out okay because we could grow just about everything we needed on the farm._

 _I do remember Uncle Bruce being mad because all our best horses were requisitioned for the cavalry, but even madder because he wasn't allowed to serve—what with his bum leg and all from a childhood accident. Oh... and Pa being gone for four years. He won't talk about his time in the war, though. Ma says it's because he's embarrassed about having a desk job and never getting in on any of the actual fighting. Personally, I'm sure glad he didn't go and get himself killed, too._

 _Cousin Luke tried to enlist as a drummer boy—he was 14 when the war started, but Aunt Dory wouldn't let him._

 _Getting back to the present... I know one thing for sure—Ma's mad enough on their behalf to dig up Gramma and slap her into next week, so she says. Tomorrow I'm going to the public library to read up on cotton plantations._


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6—_ **SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET**

 **Thursday July 9...** Another serene evening in the little ranch house in the valley. Mike had long been abed. Daisy appeared to be absorbed in knitting booties for the Bartlett's new grandbaby. (How dang many pairs of footgear does a babe-in-arms need, Andy was wondering as he wrote in his journal.) Jess was perusing the newspaper and Slim was, as usual, making notations in the ranch ledger. The only sounds were the rustling of pages, the clicking of needles, the ticking of the mantle clock and the crackling and popping of the fire. Even though it was high summer and hot during the day, it could get uncomfortably chilly after the sun went down... and was there anything more conducive to a homey atmosphere than a lively fire shedding its golden glow into a room?

Without preamble, Jess stood up and ostentatiously cleared his throat, his twitching fingers a dead giveaway that something important was about to come out of his mouth. The others went still and looked in his direction.

"I got somethin' to say..." He paused to make sure he had everyone's attention.

"Slim's offered me partnership in the ranch... an' I've decided to take him up on it..."

Daisy dropped a whole row of stitches to clap her hands in delight. "Oh Jess! How marvelous!"

"Wahoo!" Andy crowed, leaping up and knocking his chair over backwards.

Slim swivelled around his chair so quickly he almost flung himself out of it. "All right!"

For a moment Jess feared he'd be blinded by the lamplight reflected by those three beaming Colgate-whitened smiles. His expectation was that he and Slim would seal the deal with an appropriately manly formal handshake. Instead, he found himself at the center of a group hug that didn't seem to be ending any time soon.

"Hey... come on now... a fella's gotta breathe!" he blustered, squirming uneasily and chagrined to feel moisture threatening to escape the corners of his eyes. This wasn't the first time they'd done this... the same thing had happened when he'd returned at Christmas and a couple of times before then. It was unsettling...

 **Jess'd been reared** in a family environment almost completely devoid of overt displays of affection. Other than a few transient affairs with women he thought he'd loved, he had scant experience with people touching or hugging or kissing him just because he'd made them happy and they'd _felt_ compelled to do so. Like right now.

Limited physical contact between men was unavoidable and acceptable within certain contexts—for instance... shaking hands, _mano-a-mano_ combat, rough-housing in good fun, a jolly slap on the back/butt/arm, a doctor attending a patient... even brief hugs between _very_ close relations or _very_ good friends one hadn't seen in a long while. Other than that, getting in another man's space close enough to touch... well, that just wasn't done. Unless you were one of those foreign jokers like those Frenchies who actually _kissed_ other men... _on the cheeks!_

It was different with females... you could unabashedly embrace and/or kiss your female relations, or your girlfriend, or unrelated females below a certain age (babies and toddlers) and those above a certain age (if you knew them well enough—like Daisy). Another form of allowable contact was the feel of a woman's hands on your body when you were sick or injured... or one you were romping with—but that was another category altogether.

Other than outright anger—which he had no qualms about manifesting—Jess still struggled with allowing emotions to surface. For so long his survival had depended on letting his instincts, rather than his emotions, rule his actions. On the day he'd first met Slim and then Andy, the latter had leaped on him, clung to him in boyish enthusiasm and happiness because Jess had agreed to stay on. Jess hadn't had a clue how to react. It had taken every bit of will power not to shake the kid off and back away. Not a week later, Slim had thrown an arm over his shoulders as if they'd been old pals for years.

Now... three years on... he understood that in this and other families such physical contact was normal... almost expected. It still bothered him a little at times.

 **Daisy brought out two bottles** of homemade brandy in celebration of the new regime. Unlike her predecessor, Jebediah Jones—who purportedly kept liquor around 'for medicinal purposes only'—Daisy Cooper firmly believed a good tot of distilled beverages contributed greatly to the augmentation of a body's spirits when the occasion demanded.

Before that thrifty soul _(Waste not, want not!)_ had taken over inventory management, any milk not needed for household consumption went to the orphan calves. Even _that_ was more than they needed and a lot ended up being tipped out on the ground. Nowadays Daisy made their own butter and cheese from the excess. Once she'd become acquainted with the neighbors' long-standing barter arrangements, she'd happily joined right in. Her best customer was widower George Gantry, whose outfit adjoining the Sherman's to the north included a fine orchard from which he produced excellent brandy. Daisy had accumulated a modest stockpile in the root cellar.

Some hours later the new partners, more loose-tongued than usual, ambled outside to indulge in the 'bullshit hour'—a nightly pre-bedtime ritual established some years back after Andy and Jonesy had left and they'd had only each other for company. Other than in heavy weather or when one or the other was absent from the ranch for some reason, most nights found them ensconced in the front porch rockers. Aware of the importance of these bonding sessions, even if the men themselves weren't, Daisy tactfully excluded her presence. So had Andy, on this occasion. One of the more sophisticated social graces he'd acquired as an older adolescent was sensing when to withdraw gracefully.

 **Each with a booted foot** propped against the railing for propulsion, Slim and Jess were unconsciously rocking to and fro in unison. Sometimes they had a lot to chat about, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes companionable silence in close proximity was enough to bring peace to their souls. At other times, not so much.

Over the years the two had developed a symbiotic sixth sense—beneficial, for the most part—that allowed them to gauge each other's moods without a word being spoken. Though it was too dark to provide visual cues, Slim sensed that Jess was _still_ troubled. From frustrated experience he knew the futility of direct inquisition—the man would clam up tighter than a gnat's ass.

 _I'll have to approach this subject sideways... with stealth and cunning..._

"Sure missed this while you were gone. Awful lonesome, sitting out here by myself and wondering how you were doing so far away..."

"Yeah. Me, too. On the boat at night I wondered if maybe you was settin' here lookin' up at the same moon... wishin' you was there with me. Or I was here..." Jess' voice faltered a hair. "Lookin' back, I wish I'd never gone... never heard a that goddam legacy... didn't know what I know now..."

"Well... you _had_ to go... we knew that. And now you've got yourself real live blood relatives... that niece of yours, and the little boys. That's something..."

"Yeah... well... they're too young to care an' she don't need me."

"Maybe not materially... but you're _her_ only adult kin now... except for her stepmother. She needs your moral support. I hope you're answering her letters."

"I am... just ain't got much to say. I'm right back where I was before all this started an' she's movin' on to a better life that I ain't a part of."

Slim kept quiet, sensing there was more coming.

"You know, till all this happened I'd almost forgot what it felt like, bein' alone. Then Tony died an' it all came back to me. I guess that's one thing that'd been botherin' me... that I was alone again an' always would be." Jess sounded almost plaintive.

 **That Jess was actually communicating** or trying to convey some sort of emotional turmoil was a phenomenal departure from his usual reserve. Not about to pass up this rare opportunity, Slim offered encouragement.

"But you're _not_ alone, Jess... you never were. We've been right here for you all these months. There's no need to hide it when you're feeling down."

"I know that. An' I'm grateful. I really am."

"Even though the inheritance didn't work out, you ought to keep in contact with those distant cousins of yours... BobCat and PlumbBob. You never know... some day we might take a notion to take some time off and ride out to California. Jay Dee's mother seems real nice. I'm sure she'd like to meet you and BobCat'd like to see you again. Jay Dee could take us around and show us the sights."

"Yeah, maybe. Like I said, though, ain't nothin' to write about. Been kinda quiet around here."

"What seems ordinary to us is probably exciting to folks in other parts of the country."

Since Jess didn't follow through on that, Slim found another topic to explore.

" **So how're you feeling...** _ **partner?**_ **"**

" 'Bout what?"

"About this. All of it." Slim waved a hand toward the darkness beyond the porch. "Being part owner of everything you see out there... or can't see, at the moment. Moon'll be up pretty soon."

"Don't think it's sunk in yet, tell the truth," Jess murmured. "Kinda an odd feelin'... ownin' land. Kinda like... bein' hogtied..."

Slim stopped rocking as he searched for the message in that statement.

 _Does he feels he's made a mistake? Is that stake not driven in as deeply as I'd thought?_

"You already regretting your decision? It's not too late. You can back out if you want to. Nothing's official until the papers are signed..."

"Nah... it ain't that... it's more like... feelin' like a real member a the family, not just a business partner. I like it... but I'm kinda scairt of it all the same. It's hard to explain..."

 _Try another subject..._

" **In this family we celebrate birthdays...** and you've got one coming up."

Jess groaned. "Don't remind me!" Back in his gunfighter days, he'd never expected he'd last three decades... most gunmen didn't. And here it was staring him in the face... almost. Next year he'd be thirty! With all the times he'd come up on the losing side of an argument with a gun, he'd long felt like a cat that'd already used up its nine lives and was living on borrowed time.

"We should do something fun... just you and me... how about a night on the town, my treat?" Slim was doing his best to inject enthusiasm and levity. "Or better yet... let's go to Cheyenne and visit the Social Club. John and Harley keep a mighty fine stable of fillies... just what you need to buck up your spirits."

"Don't know I got the energy for that no more." That was another thing. He hadn't been with a woman since he couldn't remember when.

"There _is_ life after thirty, you know..." Slim joshed. "I'm living proof. And I think—I hope—I've got a lotta years left in me. So do you. I hope when we're eighty years old we'll still be sitting on our duffs out here, watching the moonrise and complaining about our grandchildren."

Jess chuckled then. "Ya think? With our old women sittin' back in the kitchen complainin' about us?"

"Exactly."

 **Minutes passed as a tiny sliver** of waxing crescent moon inched above the hills, lightening the sky just enough to be able to distinguish it from the black landforms. Jess' next utterance was a bolt from the blue... catching Slim by surprise.

"Don't you an' Andy have kin back east?"

"Probably... but we don't know 'em," Slim admitted. Jess'd never evinced interest in the Sherman family's antecedents... so why now?

"Why not?"

"Well... our mother was an only child and her folks died when she was little. She was raised by her aunt and uncle... the ones who eventually moved to Cheyenne. Both gone now."

"What about your pa?"

"He never talked about his family. Ma told me once there was some bad blood there and he was ostracized... shut out. She made me promise to never ask him about it. She did say he came from some village in Pennsylvania when he was a young man and lived in South Carolina for years before they met. Then they got married, I was born and we came out west. That's basically all I know. Ma said he wrote letters home once or twice a year, right up until he died, just to let 'em know where he was in case anyone cared... but he never got an answer."

"Did she let 'em know? About him bein' dead?"

"She never said but I doubt it. He'd been gone from there for something like thirty years by then. I suppose she thought they didn't deserve to know anything about us."

"You ever thought a gettin' in touch with 'em yourself?"

"No, not really."

"Wouldya even know where to start?"

"Ma kept journals—I've never read any of them. Just didn't seem right. Kept 'em in her old travel trunk. After she died I put it away in the attic, in case Andy might want to read about the old days when he's grown. There might be contact information in those. Personally, I don't care about Pa's family since they didn't care about him. Would you?"

"Reckon I wouldn't, at that. But I sure'd like to see my sister Francie again some day... if she's still livin'."

And that's where they left matters that night as the slender sickle of moon cleared the mountain tops.

 **Meanwhile… that same night** back in Pennsylvania… An incredible tale of deceit continued to unfold with every subsequent letter. What wasn't specifically mentioned or described could be easily extrapolated… as well as the consequences.

A year went by during which Matt exchanged monthly correspondence with his sister, getting updates on the children's welfare and assurances they were well and thriving. He forwarded what funds he could with each letter. There still weren't enough improvements in his living conditions to allow him to fetch them to the island. Although the owner had made many promises to start constructing private dwellings, he'd yet to do so.

The seven hundred miles between Matt's location and his hometown might well have been seven thousand. There were no connecting rail lines in those days and stagecoach travel was arduous, expensive and not especially reliable, schedule-wise. The cotton business was booming and Matt's employer was reluctant to allow him adequate time off for a home visit. In any case, it would've been leave without pay and he couldn't afford it.

Only gradually did Matt become aware of increasing coolness in the tone of Charlotte's responses—the lack of references to any proposed visitations, for instance. Insinuations that perhaps it would be best if he _didn't_ visit, as that would disturb the children's routines... and interfere with hers. He knew then that he had a problem... but no way to address it.

Another year and then another went by all too swiftly. Matt understood now that the plantation owner had no intention of making the island habitable for overseers' families, if they had any. Every acre of arable land was dedicated to the production of premium Sea Island cotton. Matt's children were now five and three years old and didn't know him. Nor, it seemed, would they ever _get_ to know him.

 **Matt had been gone** from Pennsylvania a decade before he finally was forced to accept he'd lost his children for good. The plantation owner had died, his widow had elevated Matt to general manager and deeded him ten acres on which to build a house. He had money in the bank but even more responsibilities and less personal time. He decided to make one last appeal to regain his offspring.

He received an exceedingly vitriolic letter from Charlotte informing him that she'd sued for and been awarded sole custody of her nieces and nephew. Matt's parental rights had been irrevocably terminated on the grounds of abandonment. Furthermore, she had obtained a peace warrant forbidding him access to the farm or anywhere near their vicinity. If he even _attempted_ to see them, she wouldn't hesitate to call the law on him. Copies of the decrees were included with this, the last letter he ever received from her.

In time the widow remarried and her new husband took over the plantation. He was a cruel and demanding master. When he and his general manager couldn't come to terms on how slaves should be treated, Matt resigned. Selling the comfortable home which would never hear the laughter of his children or the patter of their footsteps, he moved to the city.

With a glowing but covert recommendation from the former widow and a little help from Ben, now a branch manager with the Bank of Charleston, Matt embarked on a new career in the banking industry. All external traces of the Pennsylvania farmer and cotton plantation overseer were expunged over the next few years. The prosperous and well-respected banker rubbed elbows with 'quality' folks and became quite well-known in the city's social circles. At thirty-eight, he was a fine figure of a man, eagerly sought after to no avail by unattached women of all ages. And then he met an unassuming young schoolteacher from Ohio...

 **Oberlin graduate Mary Grace Johnson** was twenty-four at the time and not in the market for a husband. She enjoyed her position at a prestigious private female seminary, relished her independence, lived thriftily so that she could spend her discretionary funds on books, cared little for frocks and fripperies, and loved to fish... which is how they met—on the banks of the Cooper River in a pocket park off the French Quarter. She'd slipped on the muddy bank and fallen into the water while trying to disentangle a hook from some bushes and he'd gallantly 'saved' her.

It was love at first sight but Matt chose to tread cautiously, waiting to see if she'd be put off by the age difference... or the closed chapter of his life he knew he'd be obliged to disclose if they were to have any sort of future together. They'd been keeping company for six months before he finally told her about his 'first family.' Mary Grace listened carefully, asked astute questions, told him she needed to think about it before making any decisions—and eventually came to the conclusion that it need not have any bearing on a life together. They made a pact to never speak of it again or tell anyone else. Six months later, they married in a quiet ceremony before a justice of the peace. Shortly after their son was born, they made the decision to move west.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Thursday, July 9:**_ _Great progress tonight! More reading, less talking. We now know how and why things went sour between Gramma and Grampa. She wouldn't let him see his own children… even threatened him with jail if he tried. If I'd have been him I would've gone right up_ _there_ _here... and kidnapped them. Who would have thought she could be so mean? Grampa should've married that rich cotton widow._

 _Looks like Gramma stopped answering his letters after that... and they're not all that interesting anyway... lots of blah blah blah about the cotton plantation and only a few paragraphs long, which is why they (downstairs—from now on I'm just going to call them 'The Readers') got through so many in one sitting._

 _At the library I found out a lot about cotton plantations and slave labor that we never learned in school—I expect people thought the goings-on were too gross and horrible for children to hear about, which they were. Slavery_ _was_ _awful and the work was backbreaking. Sure glad we don't grow that stuff here._

 _No one in this family will ever want the world to find out Matthew Schirrman became a slavedriver in the South! It'd be a major scandal and ruin our good name. The Readers were really relieved when Grampa moved on from that line of work and became a banker (boring)._

 _A note about those letters: Every one's signed off with_ 'With all my love to my sister and my children, Matthew Elijah Schirrman' _which proves he still_ _did_ _care about them and never deserted them in his heart. Dory brought that up and they all had a good cry about it. (Damn you, Gramma!)_

 _A really bad thing happened right then!_ _Tabbie busted into my room without knocking first. As if I haven't told her a million times she has to stop doing that! We aren't little kids anymore and it's not okay to just barge in uninvited because one of us might be naked. Not that I was, this time, but I had to shush her right quick or they would've heard us downstairs. Of course, nothing would do but I had to take her down to the end of the hall and explain what was going on. After that she insisted on listening with me. By that time The Readers had moved on and had just breezed through 1840... and that's when they got really discombobulated!_

 _I'm only going to list the highlights because The Readers were so excited they started skimming the descriptive parts and were mainly focusing on dates and locations. They ended up going through every one of those letters right to the last one in 1863. It was three in the morning before they got done and Tabbie and I sat right there until our butts were petrified, taking turns visiting the water closet and poking each other when it looked like one of us was about to drift off._

 _This is better than any dime novel because it's REAL... these are OUR PEOPLE!_

 _In 1841 Grampa married a schoolteacher named Mary Grace Johnson, a lot younger than him. In 1842 they had a baby boy they named Matthew Junior. In 1843 they joined a wagon train going west to Oregon Territory. Also, they changed their last name to 'Sherman' because it was easier to read and for other people to remember._

 _In 1844, Matt and Mary Sherman were living near Salem in the Willamette Valley, where a baby was stillborn. In 1847, they moved to a settlement in southeast Wyoming where they lived in a tent until Matt built a soddy. By the next year they had a proper cabin and the settlement had a proper name: Laramie._

 _By 1849 they had claims on a good bit of land and a starter herd of cattle._

 _Tabbie and I don't know what happened during the next nine years as The Readers were skipping over those parts, except for them having a lot of dead babies._

 _In 1856, that year's baby survived. They named him Andrew Patrick. Not too much happened after that until the start of the war._

 _In 1861 at age 19 Matt Jr. enlisted in the Union Army against Matt Sr.'s wishes. Matt Sr. was deemed too old and stayed on the land. Anyway, he was a pacifist._

 _In 1862 Great-uncle Ben's name came up again—he'd been killed while_ _fighting for the secesh!_ _Well, he wasn't actually in combat—at age 60 he was too old for_ _that_ _—but he was an officer with a deskjob in Richmond, Virginia and the building got blown up. His wife had predeceased him and they had no children. As the only known next of kin, Grampa'd been notified by the war office and he'd passed along the news. Hoooeee! Another scandal! So_ _that's_ _why no one ever spoke his name._

 _The last letter came in 1863 and that was the last we heard of Grampa. The Readers assume he probably died. He would've been 59 at the time. We know Mary was still living at age 47 and Andrew Patrick at age 8. Second Lieutenant Matt Sherman, Jr., age 22, was also still alive but away at war._

 _The big question Tabbie and I are asking ourselves is... what's become of these people—our grandfather and step-grandmother and half-uncles? Grandpa Matthew would be 69 now, step-grandmother Mary Grace would be 57, Uncle Matthew would be 31 (if he survived the War) and Uncle Andrew would be 17..._ _our age!_ _If still living, Uncle Matthew's probably married with kids of his own._

 _Are any of them still alive in this Laramie place? Do we have yet MORE cousins? Are they cowboys? What are The Readers going to do with all these skeletons in the closet and do they intend to ever tell us kids about them? We'd really REALLY like to know. Tomorrow Tabbie and I are_ _both_ _going to the library to read up on Wyoming and Laramie and life on the frontier._

 _P.S. This is longest entry I've ever made in this damned journal. My fingers are numb!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7—_ **WHEN CALLS ADVENTURE**

 **Some days later...** As it happened, The Readers decided to _not_ share what they'd found out about their long-vanished father/father-in-law... not immediately, anyway. The possible continued existence of the _second_ family of Matthew Schirrman—himself presumed extinct—posed no threat to theirs... or did it? Just to be on the safe side, the default family patriarch—Christopher Schirrman—trotted his summaries, though not the letters themselves, over to Reading for a consultation with the family attorney. The meeting did not go well.

Counselor Jonathan Pritchard Rumboldt IV, after due consideration and deciding an archival excavation might be in order, unearthed _another_ —and more recent—last will and testament of one Gustave Johannes Schirrman, which had been drafted by JPR I some sixty years earlier. The law firm had been in disarray at the time, with the baton of leadership being in transition to JPR II, who wasn't the most organized legal eagle in Berks County.

As the fates would have it, on the buggy ride back to Kutztown after having signed the document, Gustave suffered a fatal myocardial infarction. His faithful old grey mare, Clarice, knowing the way home and never missing a step, delivered his lifeless body directly to the _porte-cochère_ adjacent to the kitchen entrance. The next day JPR II fell victim to a runaway milk float while strolling across the street at lunchtime for his customary sardine-and-cheese sandwich and pint of ale at Entwhistle's Emporium.

An underpaid underassistant junior law clerk was detailed to clear out JPR II's office for the next incumbent, JPR III. Unable to make a dent in the detritus, the feckless individual gave up in sheer _ennui_ and simply stuffed all loose documents into a box. JPR III's new and inexperienced secretary, assuming the box contained nothing of consequence, had it sent down to the basement storage. Therefore, the existence of this _new_ last will had remained unknown... until now.

" **I hate to be the bearer** of unwelcome tidings, Christopher," JPR IV intoned, peering over the rim of his spectacles, "but this _is_ a valid document. And I must advise it does indeed pose a grave problem as to the equitable disposition of property under the terms of Charlotte's will."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning your and your siblings' shares may be considerably reduced after restructuring to accommodate whatever other heirs can be proven to exist."

"What if they don't... or they do, but never find out? Who would ever know?"

"Tsk tsk!... I would, for one. And do you really want _that_ on your conscience? Not to mention the illegality of neglecting to pursue the matter. That would be fraud, you know. Furthermore, I'm not inclined to subject this firm to prosecution for complicity."

"So what am I... are _we_... supposed to do?"

"I suggest inquiries be made."

"Well, shit... just... _shit!_ What am I going to tell my family?"

"The truth's always best, Christopher... but there's no need for precipitate action. Wyoming is far away and there's no guarantee these people... your half-relations... are extant or still live there. I can initiate the investigation, if you like."

"Yes, please... I'd be grateful. You do understand I... er... _we..._ would prefer this information didn't get out?"

"Of course. Fortunately, the Pinkerton agency recently opened a branch here in our fair city and they're offering discounts to drum up business. They're very reasonable and absolutely discreet. Do keep in mind this is likely to take some time."

"I will... and thanks, JP. I'm relying on you."

 **Christopher Schirrman drove** the twenty miles back to Kutztown with a heavy heart and a massive headache. He'd never been that handy with arithmetic and trying to do it in his head was befuddling. Eva'd always been in charge of record-keeping. Really, the only fact he could sort of grasp was that he and Dory and Weezy were entitled to one-third of Charlotte's half, plus three-fifths of Matthew's half—with these two half-brothers entitled to two-fifths. Maybe the reduction in acreage wouldn't be that drastic after all. Still... it was so unfair! Why should they—the half-brothers, get _anything_ when his whole life he'd worked a farm they knew nothing about?

That afternoon, Chris called an emergency meeting to discuss the latest development. Instead of Chris and Eva's home, however, they gathered at Weezy's. Her youngest, Gerry—the only boy—was under the weather and she wasn't comfortable leaving him in the care of his sisters.

Matthew'd been wrong all along about his assumed non-inheritance, Chris explained. They'd always been told that grandfather Gustave had bequeathed his entire estate to his eldest daughter, Charlotte, in reward for having been his loyal caretaker in his dotage. But now it appeared that in a last-minute crisis of conscience and fit of generosity he'd secretly revised his will, dividing it equally between her and Matthew... with a codicil that _Matthew's_ share would devolve to _his_ heirs should he predecease his sister. No provision had been made for Benjamin, who'd apparently blotted his copybook with Gustave over some silly quarrel.

The family's dirty laundry was becoming more soiled by the minute. They agreed to keep all this among themselves until the matter was resolved one way or another. The children needn't be involved. Either the missing Schirrmans—or Shermans, whatever—would be located... or they wouldn't. _If_ they were and _if_ they stepped forward to claim their share of the inheritance, the Pennsylvanian faction would deal with that when it happened. No sense getting all worked up over an internecine squabble that hadn't yet occurred or a court battle that may or may not come to pass.

 **Earlier...** Eva'd voiced no objections when the twins asked to be excused from afternoon chores in order to visit the library, so long as they didn't dillydally and got home before dark. Though neither Eva nor Chris had gone to college, they were united in their determination that their children would. Undeterred by failing to accomplish that aim with the first set of twins, Joshua and James, they'd turned their sights on the second set, Benjamin and Tabitha—envisioning a future other than farming for those two. Fortunately, the younger duo had always been good students, had graduated with honors from Keystone State Normal School—a facility geared toward turning out future teachers, and were on track to enter college in the fall. Interest in the library was to be encouraged—even at the expense of assigned chores.

Ben quickly harnessed up Clarissa (descendant of Clarice) to the shay and off they went at a spanking trot. Both he and his sister would rather have ridden horseback but Eva insisted on proper attire and demeanor for town appearances... no overalls, work shirts, brogans or slouch hats allowed, which Tabitha much preferred and could get away with on the farm. A nuisance, but what could you do? Mustn't annoy the old folks.

Two hours and copious notes later, the pair exited the reference section and returned to the livery where Clarissa had been parked. Detouring by the stage station, Ben pulled up in front of the depot.

"Why are we stopping here?" Tabbie narrowed her brows in suspicion.

"Just be a minute," Ben chirped, hopping down. "Stay here."

"Oh no you don't... I'm coming in with you!" Tabbie followed, not waiting to be handed down as she should have and tearing a ruffle on her skirt. Ben stalled.

"I just want to check on something... get back in the shay."

"Like hell. What are you up to, Benjie?"

"None of your business. And don't call me Benjie, dammit," Ben growled as he turned to go in.

"We'll just see about _that!_ " the girl spat, marching in right behind him.

Seeing no way around it, Ben asked the stationmaster for copies of the railroad timetables and rates schedules out of Reading, which they kept on hand as a courtesy to travelers. These he tucked into a vest pocket. Grumpily he reinstalled himself on the shay's seat, leaving his sister to hop off the boardwalk, trudge all the way around through dust and manure and climb back in on her own. Ungentlemanly, but he was peeved. Tabbie didn't say a word but she didn't have to. He could tell by the set of her jaw that she wasn't going to let it go. Dern girl.

 **On the outskirts of town** was a pretty little city-owned park dotted with mature oaks, picnic tables and a duck pond surrounded by wrought-iron benches. It was late afternoon and most visitors were preparing to leave. Ben turned the mare into a shaded spot and pulled up again.

"I guess we gotta talk about this."

They really hadn't had much opportunity for private chats, what with all the chores their parents had lined up to keep them out of trouble during the summer months. Ben did manual labor right alongside his father and brothers and the hired hands—chopping wood, milking cows, tilling, hoeing, cultivating... whatever needed doing. Tabbie was resigned to helping her mother in the kitchen. Canning season was just getting underway as the house garden and orchard were producing stupendous amounts of vegetables and fruits. With all the seasonal field workers who had to be fed, cooking never ended. No sooner had mother and daughter cleaned up after breakfast than it was time for lunch... then dinner. Thank heavens they had two maids for housecleaning and laundry.

 **Tabbie sat quietly,** hands demurely folded in her lap as she pretended great interest in the ducks. Ben wasn't fooled for a second. She was giving him the business without actually looking in his direction. He'd _have_ to tell her... or risk exposure in the matter of the heat register in the floor in his room.

With the tale of Grampa Matt's life after his alleged 'death' unfolding one letter at a time, Ben's imagination had been fired at the possibilities... what if _he_ could FIND this elusive grandfather's _second family_ and reunite them with the first? What an adventure that would be, taking off to this Wyoming Territory... a place as alien as the far side of the moon! He had money enough saved up for a train ticket, but first he had to make plans.

"About Gramma Charlie being a big fat liar, you mean?" Tabbie didn't even blink.

"Yes... no... I mean, what if our grandfather's still alive... out there in Wyoming territory somewhere?"

"Surely he's dead by now."

"Not necessarily... he was much younger than Gramma…"

"Yes. So what?"

"Don't you want to know for sure? Wouldn't you want to meet him if he is? And what about these uncles we didn't know we had? I'll bet they're cowboys."

"And charming ones, I'm sure." Tabbie shuddered. "Probably illiterate, hairy, toothless tobacco-chewers who bathe once a year if at all and smell like hogs... or worse."

"I don't know where you get these notions, girl."

"I sincerely doubt they're anything like us."

"That's the point... people out there _aren't_ like us. It's the Wild West... exciting... and I want to go."

Tabbie did turn her head then, very slowly, and blinked. Once. "Have you completely lost your mind? What makes you think Mother and Daddy would ever allow it when they don't even want us to _know_ about it?"

"I wasn't planning on asking, Tabs. Just... _going..._ "

"What a super keen idea," Tabbie scoffed. "And just how do you propose to get there? Wyoming's a long way off..."

"I have money saved up. Enough for a train ticket, I'm pretty sure..."

"You are barking mad."

"No... seriously. Look... I'm eighteen now—old enough to make my own decisions."

"You seem to forget that applies to me as well," Tabitha sniffed. "However, _I_ possess a modicum of common sense whereas _you..._ are off your rocker."

"I'm not _asking_ you to go. In fact, you _can't_. But I could use your help in..."

Tabbie inhaled sharply and Ben knew he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"What. Do. You. Mean. I… _Can't?_ "

 _Oh... crap!_

"You're a girl. You can't just take off like I can. Heck, you'd need all kinds of clothes and..."

Without warning, Tabbie snatched the reins from her brother's hands and slapped them smartly on the unsuspecting Clarissa's rump. The mare hopped a foot straight up before lunging forward. Ben hung on for dear life as the shay careered ac **ro** ss grassy lumps toward the road leading back to the farm. Once home, Tabbie flounced off, leaving Ben to put away the horse. She didn't speak to him until the following afternoon.

 **Ben was mucking out** the chicken house when Tabbie appeared in the door, flat shovel in hand. She was wearing a pair of his old overalls and one of his _new_ shirts.

"Hey! Isn't that my...?"

"I have a plan," she announced starchily, squelching in with her gumboots and shoveling up a mess of chicken turds.

"Plan? What plan? What are you talking about?"

"A plan how we can get away and be long gone before anyone notices we're missing."

"What do you mean... _we?_ " Ben squawked, dropping his own pooper scooper in alarm.

"As in you and me... going to Wyoming."

"Shhh! Keep your voice down!"

"No one's around. I checked before coming in."

"You're the one who's nuts. _You can't go!_ "

"If _I_ don't go, _you_ don't go. Like it or lump it."

"But..."

"Do you want to hear it or not?"

 _ **Ben's Journal, Tuesday, July 14:**_ _Missed a couple of days writing things down. (Sorry, Ma! And I'll be even sorrier if she ever reads this.) Why is Tabs so much smarter than me? I mean, we're twins. We're supposed to be exactly the same except of course for the private parts. Yet she comes up with a plan... a real good foolproof plan... in 24 hours when I haven't even got one started. (Hope it's foolproof, anyway.)_

 _I'm kinda glad I won't be doing this alone, but worried because... well, she's a GIRL. Things could happen to her out there that I don't have to worry about happening to me. I don't need to explain what, either. Not that I wouldn't put my life on the line to protect her or save her life... she's my only sister, after all, and I guess I love her even if she drives me crazy sometimes._

 _But getting back to The Plan (as I'll call it from now on). Her idea is to disguise herself as a boy since we're about the same size and she can wear my clothes. She says she'll cut her hair short even though I reminded her that when she did that back when we were 12 and decided to run away, Ma just about had a stroke. It took Tabs two years to grow back enough hair to quit looking like me. Tabbie's awfully tall for a girl—only two inches or so shorter than me and I'm almost at six feet._

 _We both have blue eyes and curly blonde hair... and I mean_ _really_ _curly—like a girl's—which is embarrassing when I haven't had a haircut in a while. Ma says when we were babies in the perambulator people thought we were identical twin GIRLS. (God forbid!)_

 _Turns out we have a lot more travel money than I knew about. And here's why: Gramma had a lot of jewelry. Weezy and Dory and Ma said they wouldn't wear that tacky old stuff to a_ _goat screwing_ _dog fight. They were going to give it to the little girls to play dress-up but Ma said they oughta get it appraised first, so they did. Turned out it was worth a LOT and the jeweler made them a fair offer. They took that money and shared it among all the females in the family—the big ones got cash to do whatever they wanted and the little ones will get theirs when they're old enough to spend it on something sensible. So basically Tabbie's kicking in her share as travel money for us. (I love my sister.)_

 _Note:_ _Something else is going on but I haven't got a clue. Heard there was another private conference over at Weezy's while Tab and I were at the library and now Ma and Pa are going around with glum faces, all worried about something._

 _There's more to The Plan but I'm tired and need to go to bed._


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8—_ **HORSE THIEVES AND OTHER UNDESIRABLES**

 **Meanwhile, on the far side of the moon...** Life was proceeding as usual, except for the day Slim and Jess rode into town to meet with Counselor McNutt to formalize the partnership agreement. They were both dressed up in their Sunday go-to-meeting duds although they hardly ever went to church except for weddings and funerals. Daisy would have liked to attend more regularly, for Mike's sake, but acknowledged that hard-working men deserved a respite. Which meant she still got up early to fix breakfast but allowed them to sleep in an extra hour or so before rolling them out to feed the livestock. Cows and horses didn't know or care that it was Sunday.

Jess was flabbergasted at the amount of paperwork waiting for them in Lychee's office. It wasn't just a matter of signing his name to a sheet of paper. Oh no! He really was having second, third, fourth and fifth thoughts about the whole deal and perspiring under the collar as Lychee shoved one paper after another under his nose, _after_ reading them out loud to be sure Jess fully understood what he was getting into.

They took a lunch break at Abigail's Best Café then went over to the courthouse to get the proceedings legally recorded in the plat book and tax register and so on. Then it was off to the bank to arrange it so Jess could sign checks and make withdrawals from the ranch account. In the afternoon they had another little break at McGuire's Saloon before making the rounds of the vendors and merchants with whom Slim had accounts, so that those worthies were now apprised of the fact that Jess Harper, Esquire, now had the authority to dicker and deal on behalf of the Sherman ranch. If anyone had opinions about Jess' elevation from hired hand to ranch owner, he was careful to keep it to himself.

Slim and Jess had discussed changing the name of the ranch to something more encompassing but in the end decided to leave it as was.

 **Late afternoon in McGuire's Saloon...** The partners were bellied up to the bar, enjoying one for the road in the lull preceding the usual incursion of serious evening drinkers. Sheriff Mort Corey sauntered in and strolled over.

"Heard the good news. Congratulations, Jess. Guess your drifting days are officially over, eh?"

"Reckon so. Spot ya a beer, Mort?"

"No thanks. Still on duty for another couple hours. Wouldn't mind a sarsaparilla, though."

"Sarsaparilla it is." Jess hooked a finger at Harry the bartender and the sheriff hooked a boot on the rail, leaning against the bar.

"Sure been quiet around here lately, hasn't it?" Slim observed, apropos of nothing.

Corey nodded. "Almost _too_ quiet. Which isn't necessarily a good thing."

"How dya figure that? Just goes to show you're doin' a good job a peacekeepin', don't it?" Jess commented.

"I think what he means," Slim interjected, "is that people tend to get complacent... let down their guard, lose their edge. They forget this country isn't fully civilized yet. There's still plenty of danger that can creep up on you when you least expect it."

"You got that right!" Corey snorted. "Speaking of which... there _is_ something you fellers oughta know about."

"Oh? What might that be... litterbugs? Overdue library books?" Slim spoke lightly but the twitch of a jaw muscle showed he'd gone on alert.

Jess continued in that same vein though he, too, had stiffened slightly. "Pickpockets? Card sharps? Chicken rustlers?"

"No... nothing that dastardly," the sheriff chuckled. "Just plain old ordinary horse thieving."

"Is _that_ all?" Jess hooted. " _That_ goes on all the time. What else is new?"

"P'raps I misspoke about it being 'ordinary'." Corey suddenly turned serious. "Y'all got time to set a spell?"

 **Harry brought beer** and sarsaparilla refills to the table his only customers had selected. He loitered conspicuously until invited to join them, intelligence-gathering being an accepted sideline of the bartendering trade. Everyone knew the quickest way of disseminating information in a small town—and cheaper than taking out an ad in the newspaper—was by telling it to a barber or a bartender. The partners might've _looked_ relaxed, slouched back in their chairs, but they were taking in every word of the sheriff's advisory.

Over the past few weeks, word had come dribbling in about a rash of horse thievery working its way west across Nebraska. After-the-fact reports were too similar to be dismissed as unrelated incidents and a pattern was emerging that had law enforcement and deprived owners scratching their heads in puzzlement. Most gangs went after seasoned working stock that could be quickly and profitably flogged to unscrupulous farmers and ranchers and—occasionally—army quartermasters who weren't too fussy about ownership provenance. But breeding stock? Only the most valuable representatives of the species were being pinched—stallions, brood mares, yearling fillies and uncut colts... no geldings or mares with foals at heel.

This enterprising band of outlaws was cunning and had discerning eyes for prime horseflesh. They didn't raid as a group but split up to hit multiple sites on the same night, spiriting away only a few of the very best animals from each. None of the vanished horses had yet been recovered. It was conjectured that the group most likely included individuals skilled in altering brands and fabricating documents, with a facility for negotiating sales and disposal of the stolen stock. Probably a native or two, adept at covering tracks and finding the most concealed campsites. However, there'd been no actual sightings of the miscreants.

 **In conclusion, Corey requested** they pass the word around to outlying ranchers who might not have been to town lately and seen the notices he'd plastered everywhere.

"Best keep your blood stock close to home, Slim. Was I you I'd get me a dog—a big, mean, slobbering, ugly mongrel with a growl that'd scare a zombie back into the grave and jaws that'd take off a cougar's head!"

Slim laughed, throwing his head back and cutting his eyes at his partner. "Oh... I got me one of those already!"

"Dern tootin' he does!" Jess hawed after deciding not to take offense. "An' if you get wind a them owlhoots anywheres around here, you send for me, hear?"

Slim stopped laughing. "Wait a minute, Jess _._ As a _bona fide_ landowner now, you've got real responsibilities. You can't just run off shooting people left and right whenever you get a wild hair up your ass!"

"An' you ain't gonna start throwin' orders around left an' right, neither _._ "

"Boys... _boys..._ simmer down!" Corey cut in with a pained expression as the two glowered at each other. "Doesn't bode well for you two getting into a fight on your first day in double harness!"

Slim apologized first. "You're right. Sorry, Jess... it's just that you always manage to find some way to get hurt when you go off on these tears... and I want those days to be over."

"Does this mean I've lost my two best volunteer deputies and temporary sheriffs?" Corey inquired mournfully.

"No, it doesn't," Slim assured him. "We'll still be available when you really need us... within reason. Isn't that right, Jess?"

"Damn skippy!"

"We'd better head for home or we'll be late for supper and make the _real_ boss mad!"

J **ess was** _ **very**_ **quiet during most of the ride home.**

 _Too damned quiet! I know what's on his mind and I'm not having it! Slim was thinking._

"You'd better not be thinking about hunting for that gang."

"What? No... wasn't thinkin' that at all."

"Obviously you're thinking about _something..._ "

"Money... that's what I was thinkin' on..."

"I thought we were straight about the money?"

"We were. We are... it's just that... well, there's somethin' I ain't told you about an' maybe now's the time to do it."

 _More secrets?_ Slim sighed. _The man's a bottomless pit of past indiscretions._

"Can it wait until we get home? I've had enough bad news for one day."

"It ain't bad news... aside from me not tellin' ya sooner. Good news, in fact."

"I'm on tenterhooks."

"What're tender hooks?"

"Never mind."

 **Meanwhile... back in Pennsylvania...** Benjamin Schirrman was grinding his teeth with his own frustrations. Should've known Tabbie couldn't keep her big mouth shut. Doggone girl!

He'd been currying his crosstied mare in the stable's breezeway when cousin Max had darkened the doorway. More like setting it alight, actually. Looking nothing at all like the fair-haired, blue-eyed Schirrman twins, Maxine Bowman was an ambulating pillar of flame with abundant freckles, jade green peepers and a copper-colored mop that sprung away from her head in corkscrews.

All the Bowman children had their father's red hair. The older sisters—Missy, Teddy and Sarah—were attractive women, but Max had blossomed early into every father's worst nightmare... tiny waist, pert bouncy bottom, and ripe-melon bosoms that defied gravity. With her irrepressible cheeriness she'd been attracting male attention since toddlerhood and could elicit smiles from the grimmest of curmudgeons. She also had the wildest and wooliest naughty streak imaginable—on which Dory blamed every single one of her gray hairs and Bruce his receding hairline.

Despite wreaking her fair share of havoc at her coeducational institution and narrowly avoiding expulsion, Max had concluded her first year with the highest marks in her class. Prior to that, she and most all the cousins had attended the same schools all their lives. Every time Max'd created mischief, it'd managed to spill over onto them as well—meaning equal distribution of punishment. Her presence here could only spell trouble with a capital 'T' and he was right.

" **So... I hear you're running away from home... again."**

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Dammit, Maxie... I'm too old to run away. I just want to take a little trip out West for a couple of weeks, that's all."

"If you don't tell your folks you're going... or have their permission... it's still running away."

"I'll send them a telegram when I'm too far away for them to do anything about it. You know what they say... it's easier to get forgiveness than permission."

"So you and Tabbie're serious about going to look for dear old gramps and uncles whozit and whatsit?"

 _Great! Did Tabbie have to tell her_ _everything?_ _!_

Ben rolled his eyes. "Their names are Matthew Jr. and Andrew. I suppose now you're gonna tattle."

Maxine gave him her 'who me?' look. "Heck no! Why would I do that? I'm coming with you."

"Say what?" Ben squawked. "You certainly are _not._ "

"That's the price for keeping my mouth shut. Besides, I can pay my own way and I'm good company, aren't I?"

That much was true, he had to admit. Max was a pistol. Someday she'd make some poor schmuck of a husband miserable with her shenanigans.

"Let's go for a swim. We'll talk about it at the lake," he finally said.

"Sure. Why not? I'll take Jimmy's horse. He'll never notice. He and Edith haven't come up for air yet."

 **It was too hot a day** to bother with saddles. They slipped hackamores on the horses and rode bareback out to the big lake a mile away, only to find they weren't the only ones with the same idea. Tabbie's pinto was already staked out along with cousin Edwina's.

 _Dang sneaky sister! How'd she get away from_ _her_ _chores before me? And why's all her and Eddie's underwear hanging on... they aren't... they couldn't be... THEY ARE!_

Paying not the slightest attention to Ben's appalled expression, Max stripped down to her chemise and drawers. Try as he might, he couldn't look away as those, too, joined the others flapping on the bushes.

"You gonna stand there all day gawking at my bubbies or are you coming in?" Max taunted before submerging those amazing mammaries out of sight. He thought for sure those things would float like buoys but they didn't. Behind her and decorously submerged up to their necks, Tabbie and Eddie were giggling hysterically.

"Chicken! Cluck, cluck, cluck...!"

Okay. Now he was mad. He'd show those girls a thing or two... or maybe not. Turning his back to them to shuck his own drawers, he clutched his straw hat in a strategic position and ventured into the lake with what he hoped was dignity. Once in, he sailed the hat back onto the bank... forgetting that eventually he'd have to come out again and the hat was now out of reach.

 **Keeping well away from the girls,** Ben swam to the opposite bank and back again, several times. Skinny-dipping wasn't a novel experience—the boy cousins did it all the time. But with _girls_ present... well... that was a whole different ballgame, wasn't it?

Ben knew what women looked like without their clothes on. He'd found Josh and Jimmy's cache of French postcards years ago. He'd just never seen a naked female in real time until now. And he knew what happened when you looked at those postcards or even just _thought_ about them. Evidently it seemed the three-dimensional version of unclothed feminine pulchritude had an even more dramatic effect. It might be awhile before he could come out of the water.

Having caught on that someone else had been rummaging through their forbidden stash, Josh and Jimmy had sat him down for a talk and explained how a physical reaction was perfectly normal and for him not to worry about it. They were pretty good eggs, his brothers. Maybe looking at naked _strange_ girls would be fun... but these were his _relatives._ He was pretty sure it wasn't proper for him look at them in the same way. Too late now! What he'd seen couldn't be unseen.

Same thing about human reproduction. He'd grown up on a farm. He knew how babies were made. He just couldn't imagine making one. Josh'd said, well... it isn't always about making babies. Sometimes... most of the time... it was just for practice, for fun. Now _that_ , Ben knew for sure, was definitely something not done with a relative.

Some years back his father'd taken him aside for a facts-of-life discussion as they applied to connubial relations… which was fine and dandy as far as it went. No mention had been made of the recreational aspects. _That_ information had been supplied by his brothers along with repeated offers to sponsor a visit to a sporting house, which so far Ben'd been too embarrassed to accept.

 **The cousins stayed in the water** another hour or so, Ben praying the whole time no adults came around looking for them. The girls had tired of teasing him and volunteered to turn their backs so he could get dressed, and he did the same for them. Max suggested they all make sure their underwear was good and wet before donning their outerwear. The folks didn't get too incensed about them swimming in their undies, but if they returned home and were caught with dry ones, eyebrows would be raised and questions asked that none of them wanted to answer.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Wednesday, July 15:**_ _Last year Ma dragged us to one of her suffragette meetings where some woman read a poem about the hand that rocks the cradle ruling the world, which sounds like a load of blarney but Pa says is basically true and I should remember that when I get married some day. Even though going to Wyoming was MY idea to begin with, I have to admit that Max and Tabbie have done a better job with expedition planning than I ever could… all because of school clothes._

 _I guess I should back up a little here... Tabbie and Max put to our mothers that their wardrobes are in dire need of updating to current styles, which requires a shopping trip to Philadelphia. According to Max, Wanamaker's—the fledgling department store—is advertising fall fashions which will quickly be picked over… so_ _we_ _need to go soon._

 _Here's where the 'we' comes in, as normally I couldn't be less interested in girls' clothes: Max pointed out that I could do with some new duds as well… and the girls will be needing a male chaperone on the train and on the streets of Philly. We can stay a couple of nights with her married sister Missy. Missy and Marshall have a great big house and we all have an open-end invitation to visit anytime… just wire them that we're coming. What could be more proper and convenient than that?_

 _I wasn't party to these negotiations but was later privately informed of my role in the nefarious plot. (Military strategists have nothing on these girls.)_

 _Here's how we're going to do this: Tomorrow I'll ride to town and send off a telegram letting Missy know we're coming in by train on Friday evening. Except what I'm really going to say is_ _Monday_ _evening... so that's when she'll be expecting us._

 _Uncle Bruce will drive us to Reading early Friday morning. We'll catch the express to Philadelphia and change to a westbound train there. That gives us Friday evening, all of Saturday and Sunday and most of Monday before Missy and Marshall start to wonder where we are. By the time they get a telegram off to our folks, we should be somewhere in the midwest and will have changed rail lines several times. Somewhere along the way I'll send the folks a telegram so they'll know we're all right. Of course, they'll know where we've been but we won't be there anymore._

 _The only bags we can carry are whatever we would reasonably be expected to need for two or three days in Philadelphia. Two small carpetbags apiece. That's what I told them and they'd better abide by that._

 _We've got all day tomorrow to get packed and make sure we've got everything we need. In theory, this works. Can't help but think about what Robert Burns said about the best laid plans of mice and men, though. Told the girls to pack their journals. I'm taking mine. Fingers and toes crossed!_


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9—_ **A CASE OF THE WHAT-IFS**

 **On the day they formalized** the partnership, Slim and Jess arrived home to find Andy handing Daisy onto the spring wagon. Mike was already seated in the bed amid several boxes and overnight bags.

"Just where do you three think you're going?" Slim inquired with mock severity.

"Young Doc stopped by to ask if I could help out Mildred Keogh—poor dear fell and broke her right arm. Mister Keogh's away on business and she can't manage all those children in her condition."

Slim and Jess exchanged glances of consternation. The Keogh's spread abutted the Sherman's to the south and they were _always_ in need of some sort of assistance, seemed like. Roger Keogh was a well-meaning but incompetent fool; his perpetually pregnant wife a kindly but uncoordinated and disorganized helpmeet. The eldest of their already extensive brood was Mike's age.

Daisy was firmly retying her bonnet, still talking ninety to nothing. "I told him _of course_ I'll stay over until her sister Marlene can get here to take over... you remember Marlene, don't you, Slim? She married Elmo Jenkins and they moved to Cheyenne? Young Doc's going to wire her as soon as..."

"Daisy... whoa! Stop!" Slim held up a hand. "I appreciate your wanting to help but that's an awful big load to take on by yourself... are you sure...?"

"Slim Sherman!" The little woman drew herself up in righteous indignation. "Are you implying I can't manage?"

"Nothing of the sort! I just don't want you overdoing..."

"Andy's very kindly volunteered to come along and take care of outside chores until Mister Keogh returns, while I nurse Mildred and make sure the children are fed."

"Has he now?" The older brother turned an inquiring eye on the younger one.

"You don't mind, do you, Slim?" Andy returned a sheepish grin. "Mike and I've already done all the chores—stock fed, cow milked."

"Well now... let me consult with _our new partner_ and see if it's all right with _him_..." Slim leaned forward, crossing his arms on the pommel and craning his head toward Jess. "Whaddya say, _pard_? Okay with you if our housekeeper and our two top hands desert us for a couple of days?"

The _new partner_ looked confused for a moment, before catching on that Slim was just messing with them. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyebrows as though considering a weighty decision. "Don't know, _pard_... who's gonna feed _us?_ Don't know as we'll survive our own cookin'. Been awhile since we had to."

"Oh pshaw!" Daisy interjected with impatience. "You boys're perfectly capable of fending for yourselves. Besides, it wouldn't hurt you to shed a few pounds... either of you."

"Now she's callin' us fat."

Agreeing that enough teasing was enough, the 'boys' waved the rescue party on its way and went to put away their mounts. In the house and rummaging through the icebox and pie safe, they were pleased to discover Daisy'd been messing with them as well... there were plenty and enough leftovers they could simply warm up. And an upside to her absence was that they could dispense with the evening bath.

 **Jess and Slim finished washing up** their supper dishes and took their coffees out to the front porch on this, their first 'bullshit hour' as official partners. A faint drumming rolling from the southwest heralded rain soon on the way. If not for the lampglow spilling out through the window panes and making parallelograms on the floorboards, it would have been dark as pitch.

"Just like old times, ain't it?" Jess grunted. "Just the two of us."

"Yup. Just the two of us... and one elephant."

"Elephant? Whaddya talkin' about?"

"The elephant you were going to tell me about when we got home. Now seems like a good time."

"Oh... well... the thing is, Slim... I kinda lied to you a while back..."

 _Okay... here it comes... don't get upset... keep your cool... keep on rocking..._

"Oh?"

"When I said I didn't have money to buy in? That weren't the truth..."

"And...?"

"I got money. A _lot_ of money."

"And you're telling me this... why?"

" 'Cause it's _our_ money now... it can go into the ranch."

Slim stopped rocking, turning to look at his partner with a frown, trying to decode the other's expression in the reflected light. He spoke very softly.

"Please tell me you didn't steal it, Jess... or kill for it."

Jess looked away. "I was afraid you'd think that... an' there ain't no way for me to prove otherwise." Looking back, he said, "I swear to you, it ain't stolen or blood money."

"Then I believe you. And in that case, where it came from is your business and none of mine." Slim returned to rocking. "You don't owe it to the ranch... or an explanation to me."

"I wanna tell you about it..." Jess insisted. "...an' why I ain't said anythin' 'til now. If you'd just listen..."

"I'm listening."

" **It was give to me in Florida.** You remember that rich lady I told you about, Miss Amelia Pettus? The one what took in my sister-in-law an' the children?"

"Uh huh."

"Well... she an' my brother had some history—a long time back when he was young, soon after he left home. Not what you're thinkin'—she's old enough to be his grammaw. She sorta adopted him an' then lost him durin' the war."

"Uh huh."

"The day Jay Dee and me left out, she give me this envelope fulla travel money for us to get back home, plus what she called a 'finder's fee' for bringin' Tony back to her in a way. I tried to give it back but she made me take it. I gave two thousand of it to Jay Dee."

Slim's boots slipped off the rail and hit the floor.

"You did _what?_ "

"For college... the kid earned it. He looked after me when I was sick like I was his own brother... like you have for three long years, every time I been sick or hurt. That's why I wanna put the rest of it into the ranch."

"The rest of... Jess... just _how much_ money are we talking here?"

"Eight grand. Enough to pay off the mortgage."

Slim was speechless.

"Or..." Jess continued. "We could pay off part a the mortgage an' buy more land an' better breedin' stock. Purebred Herefords. We already got us a bull."

 _No sense tellin' him about the_ second _envelope Miz Pettus give me 'cause I don't know what's in it... still got six months to go. Don't reckon it's more money... felt of it an' it don't feel like bank notes, just papers. Sure is a temptation to have a peek... but a promise is a promise an' I owe her that..._

 **The downpour came then...** a hard driving rain that blew under the porch roof and forced them back inside. Reconvening at the kitchen table, they sat on opposite sides and sized up each other.

Slim was shaking his head. "I wouldn't feel right about using that money."

"I didn't feel right about bein' made partner 'thout puttin' in my share."

"But you agreed to it anyway. Why? What were you intending to do with that windfall before? Pull out an' start your own place?"

Jess shrugged. "Gotta admit... crossed my mind. But more I thought about, more I knew I didn't want to leave here. Got to thinkin' 'bout all the good things we could do around here... fixin' up the house, buildin' up the herd. An' horses—Slim... you know I always dreamed a raisin' horses..."

"Don't get too ambitious..." Slim warned. "We don't have enough land to run both."

"Then we'll buy more. Keogh's sellin' out... didja know that?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

Jess shrugged. "Here 'n there around town. He ain't put it on the market yet but he's gonna. They're barely makin' it an' he's about to throw in the towel. House ain't in too good shape but we could fix it up good 'nough for a hired hand an' his family to live in."

 _Where's all this enthusiasm coming from? Not too surprised about Keogh... hasn't made any improvements since he bought the place five years ago... four sections, more or less, as I recall. I do believe Jess is on to something here..._

"Let me think on it a while then we'll talk about it again. The money's been sitting there six months. It can sit a while longer."

"Well... okay. But wait too long an' we lose out. Just sayin'."

 **The house was eerily silent** when they turned in for the night, except for the pattering of rain on the roof. Even though they'd said their goodnights and turned off the oil lamp, neither man was able to get to sleep right away. It had been an eventful day. Nothing would materially change in the way the ranch was run, but from now on they'd be operating as equals rather than employer and employee... and that made all the difference in their working relationship. Would it alter their personal relationship as well? Then there were all those _'what ifs'_ —especially the big one: _What if it doesn't work out?_

 _ **Ben's Journal, Saturday, July 18:**_ _Well, The Plan_ _almost_ _worked smooth as buttermilk except for one small problem… Cousin Edwina, who's only sixteen and a rising high school junior, was foisted off on us. This summer Eddie suffered a delayed growth spurt that's got her busting out all over. She needs new_ _everything_ _. Even I can see that. When Aunt Weezy heard about the shopping trip, she figured it was a prime opportunity to resolve Eddie's wardrobe deficiencies. Ma and Aunt Dory agreed and there wasn't much we could do about it. Of course, we didn't clue Eddie in on the covert operation until we got off the express and turned right around to board the westbound. Fortunately, she was excited though a little nervous about hopping on the bandwagon with the rest of us delinquents._

 _Max and Tabbie packed some boy clothes, in case they had to pass themselves off as boys although there hasn't been a need for that (yet). Frankly I can't see Max disguising those bosoms as anything other than what they are. Eddie doesn't have any boy clothes since she didn't know where we were going or why until we were on our way. All three are wearing the same dresses they started in and looking a bit wilted._

 _This is our second day on Penn Rail through Ohio and Indiana to Chicago. Looks like we'll have to change lines at least twice before Omaha, Nebraska, but from there on it's a straight shot via Union Pacific to Laramie, Wyoming. We're still a long way off from Chicago. The PR stops at every little podunk town along the way long enough for us to get something to eat._

 _After last night—sitting up and squashed together on hard wooden benches, surrounded by noisy immigrants with B.O. and garlic breath—we figured out right quick that third-class wasn't going to cut it. The scenery isn't all that interesting... so far pretty much like home. They say it starts changing around Chicago. Max and Eddie played card games on top of a suitcase balanced on their knees. Tabbie was trying to read but it gave her a headache. Same for me, trying to write. Miserable!_

 _Maybe it was just the fumes and all those people nattering away in a dozen different languages... and crying. Lots of crying... desperate babies and immigrant ladies not happy about leaving their homes behind, I guess. And the smoke! Everytime you stood up to go to the lavatory, you gagged on a permanent cloud of cigar smoke. Couldn't open the window because it was stuck shut. Even if we could've, it would've just let in more smoke and cinders from the locomotive. It was a relief, every time we stopped, to run outside for a few minutes for a breath of fresh air. We alternated going in pairs so there'd always be two of us guarding our luggage. Keeping it with us instead of the baggage car kept it safe but meant we were even more crowded._

 _Eddie started sniffling about being hot and uncomfortable and homesick. Max told her if she didn't leave off we'd put her out at the next station and she could go home by herself. That shut her up._

 _We're trying to conserve our money, but found out we could get a four-berth sleeper compartment for not too much more, so that's what we did this morning when one opened up after someone got off. The conductor didn't look too happy about me sharing with three females but he sold us the tickets anyway. It's not exactly_ _first_ _first-class but close enough. Instead of paying extra for the dining car, we bought bottles of root beer and box lunches at a stopover—enough for supper, too. Cold and not that good but good enough._

 _The seats in here are upholstered and we've got room to spread out. Right now our bags are piled on the top bunks, which are folded down, so we don't have much headroom and have to remember that when we get up to use the lavatory._

 _Anyway, it's much quieter and there's no smoke or bad smells except when Max farted. Honestly... that girl has no manners. I let out a silent-but-deadly in retaliation and she got blamed for it... ha ha. There's a little drop-down shelf thingamabob I'm using to write on even though the train is bumpy so I'm not being very neat about it._

 _Well, the porter, Mister William, just knocked to say he'll be along shortly to get the beds ready and we'll be in Chicago by morning. He's eggplant-purple and a real gentleman, especially to the girls. Kind, too... snuck four cups and a carafe of coffee out of the dining car and brought it to us free of charge. I can't imagine a nice man like him being a slave on a cotton plantation._

 _I'm going to the lav to change into my nightshirt while the girls get changed into whatever. Hope the line's not too long._


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10—_ **MIDNIGHT HORSE DEALERS**

 **Vedauwoo Rocks, Sunday, July 19...** Tucked in amid the wind- and water-sculpted granite boulders were many small lush valleys favored by herbivores far more nimble than cattle, which tended to stay in the lower reaches of the Laramie Range. Water in the form of springs, trickling streams and seasonal catchponds afforded water to the denizens of these verdant montane gems. The rocky defiles that provided access points were tortuous, narrow and often impossible to locate unless one knew where to look. The gang of horse thieves knew where to look.

Their present hideaway was well hidden in one of these valley meadows—far from heavily trafficked trails and deep enough in the folded terrain that smoke from their campfire dissipated before rising high enough to be spotted. Their bedrolls were ranked and supplies cached under an overhanging ledge—handy shelter from wind and precipitation. Close by, a crystalline spring fed the brook meandering through tall summer grass. A barrier erected at the far end of the valley created a perfect containment area for the horses currently grazing there—currently only their saddle horses and four mules.

 **The honcho of the outfit** and his subordinate had just returned from delivering a 'consignment' to a middleman at a prearranged clandestine location a hundred miles east across the Nebraska state line—a stallion and nine mares to be rehomed at a newly-established Saskatchewan ranch whose owner was unwilling to pay premium auction prices for his starter herd. Delighted with their quality, the procurer inquired if other animals would be available when he returned in three weeks' time. Rusty assured him there were and he'd be there, although he'd no intention of fulfilling that promise. This job had been entirely _too_ easy and he suspected the Nebraskan might be setting them up. Even if he weren't, the gang would be long gone before the disappointed man realized that his source of prime horseflesh had dried up.

Upon arrival back in camp, Rusty held a conference with the gang. The horses they'd just sold had been liberated from ranches west and north of Cheyenne. Doubtless there was a hue and cry in progress in that area. Time to move on to Laramie—a smaller town and sparsely populated with ranches spread far apart. They'd remain at this location while he did a recce to scope out the most likely prospects. After this next venture, they'd be traversing fifty-something miles of open prairie with little concealment until they reached the northern foothills of the Snowy Range, within striking distance of their next target—Medicine Bow. Compared to Laramie, Medicine Bow was a piddling settlement, but the surrounding area offered a high concentration of large ranches with potentially lucrative pickings.

Rusty was smart… but young and relatively inexperienced in long-term planning. He was ignorant of the existence of highly-trained detectives who employed pattern analysis to predict where specific criminal activity would most likely next occur, and thus initiate preemptive measures—although it didn't take a skilled investigator to figure this out. Any lawman with a modicum of intelligence could deduce—from telegraph advisories and newspaper reports—that the horsethieves were traveling in a westerly direction, more or less. Ergo, if the last town they hit was Cheyenne, then the next one had to be Laramie. There were no other towns inbetween.

 **As a nine-year-old** hiding in the woods, Russell Monroe had watched as his family was slaughtered by marauding Confederates staging one last sortie into Union-held territory. Desperate and starving, the raggedy-ass rebels had murdered his people... all for three scrawny chickens and a bucket of shriveled potatoes. Then they'd burned the house and outbuildings out of spite. Rusty hated Southerners— _all_ Southerners—with a purple passion. Especially Texans. It'd been Texas soldiers who'd rendered him orphaned and homeless.

Heading for St. Louis to join a wagon train, an emigrant couple had taken in the emaciated footsore boy... and not because they were good-hearted Christians. Oh no! They were pleased to have acquired a servant at no cost. He was cussed, beaten, allowed only a few crusts in exchange for work, and at night chained like a dog. At the first opportunity, he escaped with all the valuables he could carry.

Rusty quickly realized that folks on the road will _almost_ always pick up a pitiful waif they chance to encounter. He just as quickly learned to take advantage of their generosity. If they were nice, well-to-do Northerners, he'd stay around long enough to identify whatever of value they had in excess of what they needed, then he'd abscond with a few items he could sell or pawn. If they were poor, he'd steal only enough food to last a few days until he found his next mark. If they were Southerners, he'd rob them blind and skedaddle.

 **With no particular destination** in mind, Rusty slowly but surely migrated westward, one unsuspecting family at a time. If they were townfolks, he acquired such urban expertise as shoplifting, picking pockets and breaking and entering. On farms and ranches he acquainted himself with a variety of skills including branding livestock and forging a running iron out of rebar. He soon learned to ride and had a natural seat. At first Rusty knew very little about horses, but he quickly learned to distinguish between a good horse and a mediocre one.

On the verge of adolescence, Rusty met up with another footloose youngster much like himself and the same age—in a dark alley behind a mercantile which they'd independently planned to burglarize that night. They became friends and Rusty was both amused and chagrined to find he'd acquired a loyal partner, as that made it more difficult to incite Christian outreach in the hearts of Good Samaritans.

Elliott Buckland's mother had been cast out of her Romany tribe for the unforgiveable transgression of bearing a child out of wedlock to a _gadjo_ … and not just _any_ non-gypsy but a _married rabbi_ who refused to take responsibility. Abandoned on the streets of Chicago, the destitute young woman eventually resorted to prostitution to support herself and her triple-cursed baby. Elliott was ten years old when he lost her to alcoholism and drug addiction. Life in an overcrowded state-run orphanage was marginally better than life on the street, but Elliott soon realized that his somewhat swarthy complexion and muddled ethnic origins rendered him unadoptable. So he ran away and made his way south, via unattended railroad boxcars, to the Kansas railhead town where he met Rusty.

 **At age thirteen, Rusty stole** a good horse and sold it in the next county for enough to purchase two mediocre mounts. Past waif stage, the two boys were old enough to hire out as temporary laborers. Between what they could steal and what they actually had to earn, they always had money enough to live on.

Rusty didn't have much of a moral streak concerning other people's property but he _did_ have a great deal of compassion for his fellow lost, lonely and wretched orphans... and there were a _lot_ of them in those days. Another kid joined them, and then another and another. Finding jobs and keeping their heads above water was becoming problematic for a _group_ of youngsters.

 **At age sixteen Rusty found himself** acknowledged leader of a gaggle of younger teenagers and preteens with no place to light and no one who wanted them. They had four horses, two mules and a rickety buckboard containing their meager worldly goods. They often had to camp in the open when they weren't able to trade labor for food and a dry corner of barn to sleep in. Things simply could _not_ continue this way, Rusty decided. As the default responsible party, he needed to come up with a better solution to their financial deficit.

One day they passed through a town to arrive at a ranch with no human beings in residence. Surmising the entire family plus hired hands had jaunted off to Saturday market and wouldn't be returning until nightfall, Rusty and Elliott made away at speed with every horse in sight. The wagon plodded along a half-day behind, effectively obliterating their tracks. After altering brands, the boys turned a tidy profit selling the pilfered animals one at a time along the way. At the next town they waited for their compatriots in the wagon to catch up. An enterprise was born.

 **Rusty and Elliott were now** going on twenty. The ten others ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. Their numbers included one full-blood Omaha and his sister (Chip and Chana, reservation runaways), one half-breed Sauk (Coyote, Jesuit mission school dropout), one former slave (Ferret, emancipated), three white sisters (Ruth Ann, Cindy Lou and Ellie May—fleeing from an abusive home) and three unrelated white boys (Alvin, Leonard and Sam—escapees from workhouses).

The group referred to themselves, informally and humorously, as the 'Midnight Horse Dealers'. They considered themselves an entrepreneurial family rather than a gang of hardened criminals. They'd never physically harmed anyone except every now and then when Rusty found it necessary to thump someone to get a point across. They'd amassed a small arsenal of weapons and Rusty ensured each and every one—right down to the youngest—was taught how to shoot, break down, clean and reassemble a firearm, although no one was allowed to carry a gun unless hunting for the cookpot or on a raid. Aside from a change of clothing, they had next to nothing in the way of personal possessions as the wagon had given up the ghost some time back. Everything they owned had to be transported by pack mule.

Rusty had some rules. Petty squabbling was inevitable but he tolerated no actual fisticuffs. Every male with facial hair was to remain clean-shaven, with hair scissored to an acceptable length. They were to keep themselves as neat and clean as possible. Respectable citizens tended to look askance at ruffians and it was important they attract no undue attention. The girls weren't allowed to actively participate in any raids and they were to be treated with respect.

Despite rudely abbreviated educations, all but Ferret and the three youngest boys could read, write and cipher. All in all they were certainly better off than they'd been in their previous lives and functioned pretty much as any ordinary family... except for their chosen profession, of course.

 **Rusty had developed** a _modus operandi_ that worked admirably. A pair of polite, decently attired, well-mannered youngsters would drift into town with a convincing backstory—either as a brother and sister on their way to join their immigrant parents or a young married couple looking to settle. Rusty usually chose modest-sized townships—not too small where everyone knew everyone else, not too big with a significant law enforcement presence. After ingratiating themselves with the locals and accumulating information as to which surrounding ranches had the best breeding stock for sale, they would just as casually disappear. And a few days after that, horses would begin dematerializing as well.

Nowadays Rusty dealt only in third-party transactions, which greatly lessened the possibility of being identified as the perpetrator of the original theft. He had a nose for sniffing out in each locale the shady character most amenable to dealing in illicit goods and other skullduggery. Men like that existed wherever tainted money crossed palms, and a few casual inquiries invariably resulted in a recommendation. Smart but lazy, these men recoiled from actual hands-on thievery but gladly accepted commissions for finding buyers and delivering product to the end users. Rusty never used his real name or gave out any personal information, nor did he want to know the middleman's or the buyer's real identities. He steadfastly discouraged friendly overtures.

Rusty didn't worry overmuch about being ratted out. Even if a middleman were to be apprehended and interrogated, the most he could spill was that the person who'd sold him the horses was average everything... average height and weight, brownish eyes and hair, no distinguishing characteristics such as facial markings, scars or infirmities. A soft-spoken man with no obvious accent, around twenty, maybe a cowboy in his Sunday suit. Same for Elliott, who never spoke or reacted during a transaction, often leading the other party to assume he was deaf and dumb.

Rusty wouldn't need to pick out a new fence for his 'product' until they reached Medicine Bow, so his next step was to pay a visit to Laramie with Ruth Ann in tow, posing as a newlywed couple in the market for a small farm. Real estate agents were always eager to dish up the sterling attributes of the neighbors near any suitable property. But first, he and Elliott needed a day off to rest.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Monday, July 20:**_ _This morning during the changeover to Union Pacific in Omaha, I sent off that telegram to the folks. We know they'll be angry as all get out when they find out what we've done/where we are and we're sorry. Well... no... not really. We're having a blast! To celebrate reaching Laramie tomorrow, we decided to splurge and have dinner in the dining car._

 _It's kind of weird, eating lamb chops with little new potatoes and tiny green peas as the high plains whiz by the window. Ma couldn't have set a finer table... starched white linen tablecloth and napkins, real silverware, china cups and plates, crystal glasses and a bud vase with a rose in it. (Guess I could've left that part for Tabbie to write about but I was really impressed.) Dessert was chocolate cake._

 _The girls are unhappy because they've been wearing the same dresses for almost four days and they're a bit rumpled, but I told them they look just as nice as any of the other ladies in the dining car. (Lie!) We haven't seen any need for them to change over into boy clothes yet since there're so many other females on the train they blend in as is. They're wishing they hadn't listened to me and had packed other dresses, but of course they wouldn't have had the room for them. (Girl logic!)_

 _Saw a couple of buffalo but they were so far off all we could really make out is that they are HUGE! No Indians yet, which is disappointing, and a few horsemen who looked more like farmers than cowboys. There were four men at the table next to us in the dining car that might've been cowboys except they were wearing nice suits with vests. They were wearing cowboy hats, though, that they didn't take off the whole time they were eating. The girls said that shows they're not refined._

 _Haven't seen any mountains yet, either, but Mister William promises we'll start seeing some on the other side of the state. It'll be dawn when we stop in Cheyenne before going over a real mountain pass. I can hardly wait._

 _No one has looked at us like 'what are you kids doing here without your folks?' and that's a good thing. We don't want anyone asking questions._

 _Max met the man in the next compartment while they were waiting in the aisle in the lavatory line. (Of course, she would!) She's quite taken with him and says he's been visiting relatives in Boston and now he's on his way home to California where he lives with his father and brother on a one-hundred-thousand-acre cattle ranch. Hah! I saw him too and he sure doesn't_ _look_ _like a cowboy. Too pretty, too elegant, too well-dressed. I guess it takes all kinds. Anyway, he kissed her hand and said if she were ever in California to look him up. She says she liked to've peed her drawers. (Talk about no refinement!) Tabbie and Eddie are green with envy. I'm feeling a little green myself but I'm pretty sure it's on account of that second slice of chocolate cake._


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11—_ **A MEETING OF THE BOARD**

 **Sherman Ranch, Tuesday, July 21...** Jess and Andy were experimenting with backing a green horse in a radically different manner from the way they'd always done it—slapping a saddle on a terrified, snubbed and blindfolded animal, climbing aboard and letting it buck itself into submission or exhaustion. Slim and Adam Niederhauser observed from their perch on the top rail of the corral, the latter nodding in approval.

"Glad to see you're takin' my advice an' startin' 'em young, slow an' gentle," Adam drawled in his syrupy Georgia accent. "How old's that one? Two? Hope you're plannin' on givin' 'im at least another year to mature before putting too much weight on his back or workin' him too hard."

"That's what Pa always said was best."

"Your Pa was a wise man. Too much too soon an' you're just askin' for joint trouble in the long run. Besides, breakin' 'em the old way is not only stressful for the animal but insalubrious for the rider."

"You can say that again!" Slim agreed.

 _For damn sure I know I'm getting too old for broncbusting! Jess is, too, although he'd crawl over broken glass before he'd ever admit it._

" **Say, I'm lookin' to get my lady wife** a couple of young mares to fiddle with—as an anniversary present. She's a Marylander, you know. Horse-crazy. We got all that land an' no cattle or young un's an' she needs a hobby in the worst way. You got anythin' suitable?"

"Couple of maidens, two-year-olds I haven't decided to sell or keep as replacements but you're welcome to look 'em over."

The two men slipped off the rail, Slim leading the way past the barn and the milk cow's pasture out to the field where the broodmares lived. He'd never intended on getting into the horse breeding business but they'd always kept a few mares around... just because. He'd never had the time to fool with them much but Andy'd always enjoyed looking after them and their babies. Of course, then Slim'd had to put up with his brother's sulks when it came time to sell off their get. He'd expected he'd be done with that when Andy'd gone off to school... only to be confronted with Jess' passionate pleas to keep every foal dropped on the place.

At the moment they had four mature Quarterhorse/Morgan crosses. Two had foals at heel and had not been bred back that spring, thanks to Adam's insistence that mares lived longer and stayed healthier if allowed every other year off. The two on non-maternity leave were now bred to Garland Bartlett's Morgan stallion for next year's crop. In addition, there were two yearling fillies and the two maidens. All the previous colts had been gelded and sold except the two Slim had allowed Jess to hold back.

 **Slim Sherman and Adam Niederhauser** (Class of '66, Veterinary College of Philadelphia) had become good friends in the year since the Atlanta native had established his practice in Laramie. He and his missus had bought a small farm north of town, adjacent to the convent of the Dominican Sisters of the Divine Illumination.

Having a _bona fide_ horse doctor in town was a new development viewed with distrust by frontiersmen accustomed to doctoring their own livestock with various homemade remedies. They weren't particularly open to suggestions by some citified gent from 'back East.' If it hadn't been for Slim and a few other relatively better-educated and open-minded members of the community, the practice might have folded. It gained momentum after the ladies of the town shyly started bringing in their pet doggies, kitties and canaries. Cognizant of the influence wives wielded over their menfolk, Nicola Niederhauser threw her first open-house tea party. Thereafter the couple's... and the practice's... popularity was signed, sealed and delivered.

 **Slim pointed out the two maidens,** classic examples of the Morgan breed even though they weren't purebred—compact blood bays with not a white hair to be seen.

"Very nice!" Adam commented, "But—in my professional opinion—from the looks of those _other_ mares I'd say they won't need replacin' for years to come—they're in fine fettle. If you're of a mind to sell that pair, I'm interested. What'll you take for 'em?"

Slim scratched his chin. "Well... Bartlett gets anywhere from three to six hundred for his registered Morgans, two to five for the halfbloods, depending on how they turn out."

Adam whistled. "Good Lord! That's a lotta money for a horse!"

Slim grinned. "Yeah... but how about I make you a deal? Four hundred for both… two hundred up front and the rest in services, if that suits."

"Suits just fine but I don't want to take advantage... you hardly ever _need_ my services!"

"I suspect we'll be needing 'em more often than not pretty soon. Jess and I are scheming on doubling our herd... cattle, that is... in the near future."

 _Why did I say that? We haven't even decided on that yet... or on making a bid on the Keogh place. Maybe my heart's already made the decision and it just hasn't filtered up to my brain until now... I'll tell Jess tonight..._

 **The two men shook on it** and Adam opined he'd better light a shuck for home. He'd only stopped by to say howdy and hadn't intended to stay so long. Nikki'd have his dick in a wringer if he was late for supper again. As he was climbing into his buggy another thought occurred.

"About this rustler threat Corey's been yappin' about... you might not think you've got enough stock to attract attention, but if I were you I'd lock those mares in the barn at night for the time being."

"You would?"

"From what I hear they're goin' after breedin' stock only. Your saddle horses an' coach stock oughta be safe enough. Bartlett might wanna bed down that stallion of his in the parlor!"

Slim laughed. "I'll tell him you said so... he might just do that even if he has to send his wife and kids out to sleep in the barn!"

 **As the bullshit hour approached...** Slim startled Andy by requesting that he join them on the front porch. Even though Jonesy'd explained a long time ago why Slim and Jess needed 'buddy' time to get to know each other—undistracted by work or other folks—Andy'd always harbored a grain of resentment over being excluded. Not so much now that he was older and wiser... but it'd sure hurt back then. Essaying an unconcerned demeanor though crawling with curiosity, he followed his brother out the door to where Jess awaited. Slim took the other rocker and Andy made himself comfortable on the floor facing them, legs crossed with his back wedged against a baluster.

"I guess this is as good a time as any for the first official meeting of the board of directors," Slim said with a chuckle. "We've got a couple of items to discuss and vote on and it's time we brought Andy up to speed."

" 'Scuse me... but I got a question," Jess interrupted, "I mean... I know Andy owns one-third but how come _he_ didn't have to sign no papers?"

"Because he's underage and can't be held accountable. As legal guardian until he turns twenty-one, I can sign on his behalf."

"Which means I don't really have a vote," Andy appended snidely.

"Yes... I mean no, not officially. But you're old enough that you ought to have a voice in how we proceed. Don't you agree, Jess?"

The other pondered that for a moment.

 _What I'm thinkin' ain't necessarily somethin' Slim wants to hear. But maybe speakin' honestly is one a them new responsibilities. At seventeen I hadda make my own decisions... wasn't no one to make 'em for me. Weren't always good 'uns an' a lotta mistakes happened... some 'cause a not listenin' to folks older an' smarter than me an' others on account a not standin' up for what I believed in or knew was the right thing to do..._

"Ain't so much a matter a age as _learnin'_ , Slim. 'Spect Andy's got _educated_ ideas 'bout cattle an' ranchin' we ain't even thought of... an' I'd sure like to hear 'em."

Slim pounced. "There... you see, Andy? Your input is valuable and we'd really like your thoughts on some of the things we're gonna talk about."

"It is? You would?" From his tone, Andy was obviously dubious. True, his brother _had_ sought his opinion six months ago when the subject of making Jess partner had first come up, but he hadn't been involved in the implementation.

Slim regained the floor...

" **There's been an interesting development** since Jess and I signed the papers. He's unexpectedly come into a fair amount of money and wants to invest it in the ranch." Slim didn't elaborate and Andy was astute enough not to ask.

 _What money?_ Andy already knew that Jess wasn't going to benefit from that old lady's legacy—that it was instead going to his niece and maybe that missing sister if she could ever be located. So how had Jess managed to lay his paws on enough money to invest in _anything?_ Had to've been ill-gotten gains... and there was Slim being all casual about it. Good thing it was so dark those two couldn't see what he was sure was shock on his face.

"We talked some about how best to put it to use and came up with some ideas, but nothing final. I told Jess I'd think about it and now I have."

"You have?" The query came from Jess this time.

"Let me run this by Andy first and see what he has to say about it..."

"Uh... okay."

"There're several different avenues, but we have to decide what's most important—make improvements to the homeplace, replace our existing stock with a better grade of beeves... or buy more land. We can't do all three."

A long silence prevailed as the two men rocked and Andy gave it serious thought. At last he spoke... slowly, hesitantly.

" **There's not much more** we can do with the house unless we put a second floor on it. Seems adequate for the time being. Instead of wasting money on renovations, why not hold off until there's need?"

"You're right about that," Slim agreed. "And I don't see any need for a new house right now. Go on..."

"The existing barn could do with improvements—making it weather-tight, for one thing—and adding on inside storage for hay. We lose a lot to mold every winter when rain and snow blow in under the shelter out back. The cross-country stage business'll be over by the end of the decade if not sooner, so we won't be needing as much hay 'cause we won't have as many horses."

Slim and Jess both nodded. Yeah, they'd known for some time they'd be losing that source of revenue, what with all the new rail lines being laid in.

"By subdividing the big field out front into three separate pastures, we'd still have enough for the saddle horses plus the broodmares and the milk cow and orphans."

"What would we do with their pastures out back?" Slim inquired.

"You mentioned buying better breeding stock. We could combine Deecy's and the broodmares' pastures and use it as a staging area for new heifers in season, leave 'em long enough for Percy to get the job done, _then_ turn 'em out. That way you could keep him close to hand and not have to worry all the time that something might happen to him."

That, too, made sense. They _had_ worried that their _very_ valuable, paddock-raised purebred short-horned Hereford bull might not be able to hold his own with his longer-horned and more vicious competitors out on the range. Therefore, other than letting him out to do his duty under supervision, they'd kept him in the barn or the fenced field he shared with the milk cow.

"Good thoughts, Andy. We'll add those to the pot for consideration. Now, what about cattle? X amount of money gets us X head of grade cattle but only half the number of prime breeding stock. I recall you did some courses in animal husbandry and agronomics last semester?"

"Yeah... I did. But that involves grazing land availability and cow-calf unit sustainability per acre—two different but related issues. I'd need pencil and paper to work that out."

"What the devil' you talkin' about? What units?" Jess asked.

"It'll take a while to explain. Maybe we can do this tomorrow? It's past my bedtime!" Andy was only partly joking... his eyelids were getting heavy.

"Sure... tomorrow'd be fine," Slim said. "You go on to bed."

Andy unwound himself from the floor and said goodnight, feeling rather pleased with himself. Mathematics wasn't his strongest suit but he'd grasped enough to understand the necessity of revolutionizing their approach to cattle production. The era of range cattle and massive drives to market was over. The consuming public demanded a higher quality of beef on their tables... and demand drove economics, after all. Tomorrow he aimed to prove more wasn't better... that _better_ was better.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Tuesday, July 21:**_ _Well, we're here and I have to admit it's somewhat of a letdown—Laramie town seems as ordinary as any little burg back home. Of course, we haven't see that much of it yet... just the four blocks we walked from the station to the boarding house. There're a couple of major differences from home, of course. First of all, the cowboys loitering around the saloons and pool halls don't in any way, shape or form resemble the noble heroes of Beadle's and Buntline's novels. They're mostly dirty and drunk, but maybe that's because they're the unemployed dregs, otherwise they'd be out on the range somewhere? Guess I should reserve judgment until we find some actually working at something. Hopefully our uncles aren't like these men._

 _But let me back up a little. After Cheyenne the scenery improved dramatically until we went over the pass in the Sherman mountain range (what a coincidence, huh?) and then it started getting not so pretty. At one point when we rounded a curve we could see the whole town laid out below in a neat grid pattern with a river snaking through it. I guess we were expecting a mountain village? At the bottom of the grade we noticed it was right on the edge of a huge empty plain that seemed to stretch forever with tall mountains in the distance. This is called the Laramie Basin and the hills are the Snowy Range, which are actually only 50 miles away. (And they really_ _do_ _have snow on them... in July, no less!)_

 _The girls were anxious to find a hotel where they could get baths. I asked the stationmaster where would be the best place to stay, as we didn't have a whole lot of money (which is a semi-white lie) and planned to be here about a week visiting relatives. He recommended Missus Jackson's Boarding House... but neglected to mention one minor detail. (Apparently people around here think it's great fun to prank out-of-towners.)_

 _We assumed the colored lady who answered the door was the housekeeper but it turns out she and her husband own the house, a livery stable and blacksmith forge. The house is well-kept and extra tidy. The Jacksons live on the first floor with their two small children. An older son and two stable employees live on the second floor. We have two rooms on the top floor and the price includes three meals a day which we will be taking with the family._

 _Missus Jackson said she was a little reluctant because she'd never rented to white people before. I assured we were very quiet, clean and well-behaved and I guess the girls were looking pretty pitiful by then so she finally agreed. Then dadgummed if she didn't get to fussing over them like a biddy with chicks._

 _When Max asked if she minded her and Tabbie wearing boys' clothes to the dinner table because they hadn't packed any extra dresses, Missus Jackson said not at all and offered to wash and iron their dresses while they got their baths. Then she wanted to know all about us and why we were here, but not in a nosey-parker way so Max told her (except about our parents not knowing). We met Mister Jackson when he came in. They are both very nice people. We learned that they're buying on time from the previous owner who used to be their employer and have lived there so long the neighbors don't care that they're not white._

 _Another couple checked in not long after us, but we didn't see them until later because they went straight to their room near ours and didn't come out until just before supper. Turns out they're white, too—newlyweds John and Mary Brown. Max says she's sure they've eloped because they're awfully young... about our age... and look a little nervous. They're only staying a night or two. I overheard Missus Jackson telling Mister Jackson she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, letting white folks stay. I'm not sure what that means. Missus Jackson mentioned they're 'mountain people'... meaning not overly sociable and don't talk much._

 _The big news is..._ _the Jacksons are very good friends with the Shermans! How about them apples? Now we know exactly where they are and won't have to go traipsing all over creation looking for them. Our uncle Matthew goes by 'Slim' and Uncle Andrew goes by 'Andy'. He goes to school in St. Louis but is home for the summer. They have a cattle ranch and stage relay station 12 miles east of town and are not married but have an adopted boy named Mike and a live-in housekeeper, Missus Daisy Cooper. They have a business partner called Jess Harper who also lives there. Grampa Matthew died a long time ago but we'd pretty much anticipated that._

 _Missus Jackson didn't have time to tell more because she had to start supper. I hope to learn more about all of them tomorrow before we go visiting. Missus Jackson says Mister Jackson will rent us a team and a rig at a very reasonable price, or we can ride the morning stage out there and catch a ride back on the afternoon run._

 _I'm pretty sure that by now our folks have figured out where we've gone and why. They're old and slow but they're not dumb. No telling what they might do about it, if anything. Maybe they won't do anything, knowing we know we all have to be back by the end of August anyway, before school starts. Even if they send someone out here to get us, that someone can't get here until next Saturday anyway so why worry?_


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12—_ **CONVERGENCE ZONES**

 **Orville Jackson could be well-spoken** when he chose to be, having been raised up as a houseboy rather than a field hand, and illegally taught to read and write by a forward-thinking mistress. Although he benefited some from the grudging respect accorded his father Avery as the town's premier farrier and artisan metalworker, twenty-year-old Orrie didn't have many friends and certainly none his age who shared his complexion... as there weren't any others in town. Orrie'd been eleven years old when emancipation came but remained sensitive to the fact that he and his kind were still regarded by most people as less than second-class citizens. It rankled... but he knew to 'keep his place' and not cause trouble. Whenever he detected a note of condescension by someone who didn't know him, he responded by playing the part expected—the obsequious colored boy with a mouthful of grits.

Arriving home after closing up the livery for the evening, Orrie'd been nonplussed to find his daddy washing up for supper beside a _white boy_ in the anteroom tacked on to the back of the house. Avery'd introduced him as one of a party of four who'd be boarding with them for the week. This was a novel experience as Orrie's stepmother Martha'd never rented to _white_ folks before. At the supper table he received an even greater shock— _three white girls dressed as boys plus a white married couple!_ Granted, all were mannerly, respectful and appeared perfectly at ease... but still... what planet had they dropped from, where whites and coloreds treated one another as equals and ate at the same table? The humble hillbillies seemed to be struck dumb and spoke in monosyllables when they had to.

 **Later that evening** —after the children had been bedded down, the two hired men gone upstairs to their rooms and the boarders retired to theirs—Orrie went to join his parents on the verandah.

"Ma... you really think this was a wise move... taking in those kids? I mean, they're _white_ , for God's sake!"

"Noticed that, did you?" Martha chuckled.

"You know some of the good Christian citizens wouldn't approve."

"They're _children_ , Orrie. Would you begrudge them a comfortable and affordable place to stay?" Martha admonished. "Those girls were exhausted after riding on the train for three days."

"But..."

"Listen to your ma, boy." Avery cut in between puffs on his pipe. "She know what she doin'. Dey be relations o' Loot'nant Sherman. Not de married couple, though."

" _Our_ Shermans? Slim and Andy? They never mentioned having any."

"Dees be dere nieces an' nephews from Pennsylvania," Avery nodded. "Everythin' we gots we owe t'im."

"Oh? Don't we owe more to Missus Lowenstein—like our home and business?"

"Miz Kahale now... an' yes, her, too. But de loot'nant, he fotched me heah in de fust place..."

"Pa... he hasn't been an officer in nine years," Orrie argued. "I like the man well enough and he's always treated us fair... but he isn't anything special."

"Always will be to me, son, so mind yo mouf. Won't be no trouble. He an' Sherf Corey'll see t'dat."

"If you say so, Pa."

 **Earlier that day, rather than picking up** the stage road at the point closest to their camp, 'John' and 'Mary' had followed a parallel trail that eventually intersected about a mile from town. There they'd insinuated their horses and pack mule into early morning inbound traffic. Many mountain people didn't own wheeled vehicles so it wasn't at all unusual for a woman to be riding astride behind her man or separately on her own mount, with a pack horse or mule to carry home provisions. Once in town, they left the animals at a livery stable and started on their rounds, making small purchases at various locations along Main Street, chatting up the proprietors or fellow shoppers. Depending on the type of store, they entered as a couple or went in separately. Women are always happy to hand out advice to a new bride with a hesitant expression and a question. And older men were quick to help out a young husband with doubts and questions of his own.

Stopping for lunch at Abigail's Best Café, they pooled their acquired information... which wasn't as much as hoped for. 'John' allowed as they'd need a little more time, which meant they'd have to stay overnight, which wasn't necessarily a problem. That would give him the opportunity to visit the barbershop and a saloon or two... the most notorious purveyors of gossip. Mulling over the various recommendations, they chose Jackson's Boarding House as the least visible accommodation—too many people might recall seeing them in any of the three hotels. Convenient, too, that the proprietor of the boarding house was the wife of the livery stable owner.

Their last stop before heading to the boarding house was the land office which doubled as real estate agency. Explaining that he and his wife were particularly anxious that they be situated among 'good' neighbors, 'John' gratefully accepted a preprinted map showing the locations of the major landholders, along with a running commentary on this and that owner's standing in the community… and what livestock might be for sale.

 **Directly after supper,** the 'Browns' mumbled their goodnights and retired to their room for a consultation over the maps spread on the bed. Rusty had checked earlier to make sure they could talk openly without being overheard... especially with those three girls cackling like hens in the next room. The boy with them was farther down the hall.

"We're in luck, Ruthie," Rusty said, grinning. "Five of the biggest ranches are grouped right up here close to our camp. Three more on the north side of town."

"Are you thinking to hit all eight in one night? That's a lot of traveling and too far apart." Ruth Ann was disrobing behind a painted screen. He continued once she'd installed herself cross-legged on the bed, new cotton nightdress (a rare indulgence) decorously pulled down. Rusty slept in his longjohns.

"We'll head back in the morning and break camp, make our move tomorrow night."

Ruth Ann didn't bother to ask how he knew where to find the right kinds of horses. Wasn't her business. Rusty had done all right by them so far.

"Coyote, Ferret, Alvin and me... we'll take these three ranches." He placed his index finger successively on _Sherman, Bartlett_ and _Keogh._ "Elliott, Chip, Pete and Leo'll go for these two..." _Livingston_ and _Gantry_ were tagged. "We'll pick up the stage road heading east for a few miles then cut south here, where it's rocky and hard to track. We'll be circling around to the west of Laramie while those bozos are busy trying to find us in the Skull Rocks. No sweat."

"Won't that take more than a few days?" Ruth Ann questioned uneasily.

"You and the girls'll follow this trail—it circles well north of town—and wait for us here, on the road to Centennial."

Rusty had already marked a route, in red grease pencil, on an army ordnance map reflecting topography and landmarks.

"Looks all flat to me? Won't we be... exposed?"

"Chana'll find you a safe place to camp nearby and leave us a marker... and it's not that much farther to Centennial if you have to keep going."

"I don't know... this'll be the longest you've ever left us on our own."

"You'll be fine. So will we. Don't worry. Once we get to Centennial we'll be in mountains again and heading north toward Medicine Bow. Piece of cake."

"What about those other three ranches... north of town?"

Rusty shrugged. "You're right... they're too far out of our way."

 **Slim, Jess and Andy'd spent** the entire morning cleaning out and reorganizing the barn... something that'd needed doing since forever. At one point there'd been twelve narrow standing stalls, but one of the first improvements Slim'd made upon his return from military service was tear them all out. Now there were eight loose boxes with swing gates—exactly enough to accommodate the four brood mares, two maidens and two yearlings... with one stall left over.

Because the saddle and wagon horses were turned out during daytime and spent only a limited time in the barn at night, there'd been only rare incidences of lameness due to thrush. But Doc Adam'd stressed the importance of replacing _all_ bedding at least once a month... not just mucking out the lumps and wet bits and adding new straw— _especially_ if mares and foals were going to be standing in it. He'd also advised leaving one stall empty right down to the bare ground for at least a week, giving the soil a chance to dry out thoroughly. At the end of the week, move a horse over and let the next stall lay fallow.

While they were at it, Slim said, they might as well relevel the flooring—which involved digging and barrowing in dirt to fill in low spots and rake down high ones. Andy was detailed to sandpaper splinters off gnawed railings before painting them with creosote to deter future chewing... yet another chore that'd languished on the 'round tuit' list for far too long.

Before they knew it, it was lunchtime. For once, Daisy allowed them to squeak by with a quick hand-washing before allowing access to the kitchen table, knowing they'd be even filthier by suppertime as worse was yet to come.

 **Although he'd been gone three years,** Jonesy's presence was still very much in evidence in the mountain of detritus that'd built up along the back wall of the barn. Slim and Jess exchanged glances of resignation as they advanced toward the heaps and piles of boxes, barrels and sacks. The man was a hoarder... he'd saved _everything_ , no matter how apparently useless. They'd have to excavate every container to sort out reclaimables from trash.

Andy drew wheelbarrow duty for the throwaways although he would've preferred rooting through the junk... who knew what arcane treasures might be lurking in the depths?

"Where do you want me to put this stuff?"

"Throw it up on the flatbed wagon. We'll dump it in the sinkhole later." Slim was referring to the quicksand bog not too far away which had long served as a convenient disposal site for household refuse, animal carcasses and the occasional human body. After almost thirty years of usage, it still hadn't filled up.

Although they were salvaging a modest amount of recyclable items, Andy was making a _lot_ of trips to the flatbed. All three paused when Daisy and Mike hove into view, brandishing brooms. Obviously on a mission, Daisy was turned out with a headrag fashioned into a turban and the full-length all-encompassing apron she reserved for especially nasty jobs. Slim restrained a chuckle.

"Um... Daisy... we don't normally sweep out the barn."

"Good heavens, I know that! _That's_ what I'm after." She pointed her weapon upwards toward the cobwebs festooning the ceiling joints. "They're unsightly and always getting in my hair whenever I have to come out here. The thought of all those spiders... ugh!"

"Spiders... yeah," Jess shuddered. "The less spiders, the better!" Although he tried not to show it, the steely-eyed veteran gunfighter harbored a morbid fear of arachnids. They all knew this and did their best to avoid making fun of him on spider-encounter occasions. Mike wasn't looking too happy, either. He, too, detested spiders.

"Well... they'll just come back... but have at it if it pleases you," Slim said.

 **Both junk and cobwebs** dwindled considerably as the afternoon progressed. They weren't done but Slim declared an early break to attend to the usual chores... and he wanted to get those mares in. With Mike in tow, Daisy retreated to the house to start supper.

As Slim and Jess exited the barn, they both laughed out loud at the array of puzzled equine faces lined up at the pasture gate. Traveller, Alamo, Ranger, Scout, Willie and Jake were no doubt wondering why they hadn't yet been brought in... and were even more confused when hazed into the corral instead of indoors. All was forgiven, however, upon presentation of fragrant hay thrown down from the mow by Andy and buckets of feed brought out by Jess and Slim.

The mares weren't too amenable to leaving their pasture, which usually meant hoof-trimming time. Normally they never entered the barn except for their turns in the foaling box. Once installed in the loose boxes with feed and water, they settled quickly, however.

Supper was served somewhat later than usual as Daisy demanded baths for the trash removal team beforehand. Afterwards they gathered at the parlor table so Andy could elaborate on his notions of ranch improvement.

" **How much land do we own now, Slim?"**

"A little over nine sections..."

"And what was our final tally at fall roundup?"

"About three hundred head then, maybe two hundred now."

"That works out to almost twenty head per acre... if every acre of our property was grazing land, which it isn't. If it weren't for open range, we'd have to pare down our herd to maybe one cow-calf unit per eighty acres."

From the sharp hiss of intaken breath, Slim knew Jess wasn't liking what he was hearing. He didn't much like it either.

"How do you figure that?"

"The experts say that it takes eight acres of prime bottomland to support one cow-calf unit... eighty acres if it's prairie grass. A unit is one cow and one calf, or approximately one and one-half cows, assuming all our breeders have calved that year. What percentage of our land is actually decent grassland?"

"No idea," Slim admitted. "Never really thought about it that way. Maybe sixty, seventy percent?"

"And none of it's bottomland. What about this land you said you were thinking of buying?"

"About the same, I'd say. Keogh's spread... that'd be four more sections if we can get it."

"More land is always good... if it's worth the additional taxes and we can afford it. But look here..." Andy scribbled some figures and did some calculating. "This is just hypothetical, mind you... let's say we've got thirteen sections. That's eight thousand three hundred twenty acres. Seventy percent of that is five thousand eight hundred twenty-four. At one unit per eighty acres... well, you can see where I'm going with this."

"Yeah... but I don't agree. Most of our stock is on open range most of the year and there're always a good many head foraging in the canyons."

"You won't be able to count on that forever."

"Whaddya mean?" Jess asked.

"There's rumors coming out of Washington that'll stop ranchers from using public lands indiscriminately."

"They can't do that!" Jess blurted. "It's free an' there's thousands, maybe millions of acres a big open out there."

"No, Jess... it _isn't_ free. It belongs to the federal government. When and if Wyoming gets statehood, some of it will belong to the state. And since there aren't enough people out here to support either government on taxes alone, they're going to start charging us for running stock on public land... either by permits or leases."

"Hadn't heard about that." Slim was nodding grimly. "We depend on free access to those rangelands."

"It hasn't happened yet and it might not for a while... maybe years... but it will eventually. We've got to plan beyond next month or next year. If it were up to me I'd go for _better_ cattle instead of just more of the same old scrubs we've always run. Herefords are our best bet... they fetch almost double the market price over a scrub."

"You sayin' get rid a the whole herd an' start over?" Jess sputtered.

"No... not at all. I'm saying gradually integrate purebreds into our existing herd. In a couple of generations all the scrubs'll be bred out and we'll be generating more income with fewer animals."

"Actually..." Slim started slowly, "that's how Bartlett started out... with just one Angus bull and four heifers. I'm inclined to go along with Andy's suggestion there. I suppose that isn't the only bad news from your fine feathered professors?"

"There's more, yeah. We need to replace all our fencing with barbed wire as soon as it comes on the market... and subdivide our pastures into smaller fields so we can alternate grazing areas and give grass a chance to regenerate."

"I heard a that bobwire an' I don't like it," Jess muttered.

"It's the coming thing, Jess. Pretty soon everyone'll be using it. Think about all the hours you waste having to ride fence... and there's always some down somewhere."

"You got that right!"

"With barbed wire you won't have anywhere near the problem keeping the herd where you want 'em."

"They're already where we want 'em... mostly."

" _Mostly_ being the key word here. You could do a hell of a lot of fishing in the hours you spend rounding up breakthroughs." Pausing to let _that_ thought percolate, Andy could tell Jess was starting to get it.

"All these things take money, Andy," Slim said.

"Which you say we've got... and you _did_ ask for my opinion. Now you've got it. So my vote is, let's not spend it all on one project. Spend _some_ of it on getting started on several _different_ projects and leave the rest as a contingency fund."

 **Slim had noted,** throughout the conversation, Andy's recurring use of _'we'_ and _'us'_ rather than _'you'_. Was this significant? Was he maybe coming around to the idea of ranching as a full-time occupation? Slim wasn't sure how he felt about that... was his brother on the road to being trapped in a lifestyle he didn't really want but felt obligated to follow... just as he himself had been? It wasn't a bad life... but it sure was a demanding one.

Andy turned in for the night and, for once, neither Slim nor Jess was in the mood for a porch-sit. The boy... the _young man_ , rather... had just given them much to contemplate.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13—_ **A DANGEROUS MAN**

 **Having broken their fast earlier,** Avery and Orrie Jackson and the two helpers, Jem Morpeth and Alonzo White, had already gone to the stable by the time Ben bounded into the enormous kitchen. He'd been drowsing until a faint tantalizing aroma drifting up to the third floor jerked him to full wakefulness. _Bacon!_ Missus Jackson turned from the stove long enough to beam him a smile before spooning scrambled eggs into a bowl. Already seated at one end of the long trestle table, two little people trained wide distrustful eyes at the intruder.

"Sleep well?"

"Oh yes, m'am. Sure did. Can I help you?"

"You surely can. You can carry these eggs to the table so the children can get started. Bacon'll be ready in a minute. Would you mind pouring the milk for them? And you can go ahead and start slicing that bread for me."

Ben did as requested while the woman forked up bacon slices to inspect for the desired degree of crispness. Satisfied, she slid them onto a plate and brought them to the table.

"Set yourself down. Are your young ladies up yet?"

"I didn't hear a peep as I passed by the door."

"Won't bother me to hold the meal until they come down. Let them have a lie-in."

Ben noticed the children hadn't yet made a move toward the food.

"Do they need something else?"

"What they need is for our guest to give the blessing... if you'd be so kind?"

Ben panicked. At home they hadn't said grace in years... but it came back to him quickly enough. "Thank you, O Lord, for these Thy gifts..."

Missus Jackson nodded her head approvingly.

"Go ahead and get started. The other menfolk took out earlier, along with that Brown couple. They were in a hurry to hit the road. I expect it won't be long before her kin come looking for her," Missus Jackson chortled, sitting down on the bench opposite and folding her hands under her chin. "And yours..."

 **Choking on a mouthful** of bacon, Ben masticated frantically in an effort to get it down before it exploded in a cough. "I... we..."

The wide brown face regarded him with gentle amusement. "You think I don't know runaways when I see them? Genteel folk don't let tender young white girls travel out here unless escorted by some big, burly male relation. And, young man, you don't quite fit the bill."

Ben found his voice. "Miz Jackson, with all due respect... we're not children..."

"Runaways come in all shapes, sizes, colors and ages. Now, you bunch look well off enough that I doubt you're running from mistreatment at home. And you sure don't seem like criminals, so I'd like the truth about why you're here, if you please."

"Like Maxine told you... we came to visit our..."

"Benjamin, it doesn't do to compound one lie with another. My husband and I know Matthew and Andrew Sherman very well. Have done for years. I knew their mother Mary Grace before I met Avery. Fine woman. They're good people and they don't need any more trouble landing on their doorstep. They've had more than enough as it is."

"But you don't... we're not..."

"Mary Grace never mentioned any Sherman relatives back in Pennsylvania... or any other place. Neither has Slim. So how about it? I'd hate to have to carry questions to the sheriff's office, in case any inquiries have come in about missing teenagers."

"Please don't do that. I can explain... but it'll take a while."

"Slim and Andy wouldn't know you from Adam's housecat, would they?"

"No, m'am. They don't even know we exist... and we didn't know about them either until two weeks ago."

"I'm all ears. Let me get us some coffee first..."

 **The conclusion of Ben's confession** was punctuated by a knock at the kitchen door.

"Probably just the doctor's kids from next door."

Missus Jackson got up to reveal a pair of cute button-eyed Asian children on the stoop, around the same age as the Jackson kids. Her own were quivering in anticipation, cramming in the last few crumbs.

"All right you two... you can go out to play with Eustace and Eulalie but stay in our backyard or theirs."

"Yes, Momma," they chimed, scuttling off the bench and out the door in a flash.

She hollered after them. "Anthony, Cleopatra... you hear me? I mean it!"

Ben was momentarily distracted. "You have an Oriental doctor here?"

"No... their daddy's white, but their momma's Chinese. Now where were we?"

"I had no idea there'd be Chinese people out here."

"There's a lot of things you don't know about _'out here'_... like how dangerous it could be, going out to the Shermans' on your own without protection... and unannounced. Do you even have a gun?"

"Uh... no... I didn't think..."

"Babes in the woods," Missus Jackson groaned. "Go on... you were saying, about your plan for today?"

"Oh... uh... rent a rig and drive out there this morning, introduce ourselves, visit a bit, then drive back to town."

"Just like that... with no forewarning?"

"We were thinking it would be a nice surprise?" Ben faltered.

 **Martha Jackson rolled her eyes.** "Worst idea ever!"

"Why?"

"Several reasons... firstly, people _out here_ don't care for surprise visitations... unless it's a neighbor, someone they know or an emergency. And it's a _working_ ranch... they're not sitting around on the verandah sipping mint juleps, smoking cigars and passing the time of day. Most likely they're not even _at_ the ranch itself but out on the range someplace, unless it's time for the coach to pass through."

"And?"

"Second, we've been advised there's a gang of rustlers moving our way. All the outlying ranchers are primed to shoot first and ask questions later if they even get so much as a whiff of strangers on their property."

Ben was dumbfounded. "Even if it's a buggy full of girls?"

"We have our fair share of female outlaws... and some of them look innocent as angels. Many a man's gone to glory at the hands of a pretty woman with a pistol."

"Oh." Ben's eyes went wide. "I thought that was just in the novels…"

"One other thing... concerning this _particular_ ranch. Slim Sherman's business partner—Jess Harper? He used to be a gunfighter. Some say still is. Granted, he's never given me or mine any cause for concern, but let me tell you that since he moved in three years ago, he's put down more men than he's got fingers and toes to count on."

Ben gulped.

"He's close as a brother to Slim and Andy but a dangerous man all the same. You don't want to cross him... or give him _any_ reason to suspect you might mean harm. Understand?"

"Yes, m'am. I sure do."

"It's not enough that _you_ understand... you have to impress that on your kin... those girls."

"I do. I will..."

Missus Jackson heaved a deep heartfelt sigh. "One more thing... and I really hate to bring this up because it sounds so prejudicial... but... you'd best keep a tight rein on them... especially that red-headed one."

"What do you mean? Why her?"

"Let me put it to you this way... Jess is a ladies' man. He has a moral streak, bless his heart, but he loves the girls and the girls love him back even more. I don't believe for a second he'd take advantage but... see... _out here_ , girls their age are considered grown women. Fair game if they're willing. If a girl like that spitfire cousin of yours throws herself in the path of temptation... do I have to spell it out for you?"

"No, m'am. I get the picture," Ben croaked, red-faced. He had no illusions where Maxine's virtue was concerned... she'd even tried it on with him a few times and he'd barely escaped with his own intact.

The girls trooped downstairs just then. Missus Jackson greeted them warmly, bidding them sit down and help themselves to bread, butter and jam while she fried up more bacon and eggs. When they were done, their dresses were cleaned, pressed and hanging in the airing cupboard. Ben couldn't leave fast enough, announcing he was off to see about renting a rig.

 **The 'Browns' were still at the livery** when Ben arrived. They'd intended to be well beyond the town limits before sunup, but they'd had to wait while Orrie repaired a broken strap on their mule's pack saddle. After a failed attempt to initiate small talk with 'John,' Ben strolled around looking at the horses on offer and making note of the meticulous state of the livery in general. The attached blacksmith shop afforded a few minutes of entertainment as Avery, Jem and Alonzo were struggling to restrain an enormous sooty-black horse.

By the time Ben returned to the livery side the 'Browns' had finally got underway and their place taken by another customer. Ben hung back in the shadows where he could both view and overhear. Orrie was acting most peculiarly... not at all like the articulate and pleasant though reserved individual Ben'd met last night at supper. _This_ Orrie—wearing a mask of stupidity—was mumbling in some almost incomprehensible dialect, practically bowing and scraping to a nattily-dressed little jerk rudely barking demands at him. A pair of sturdy roan mares were already hitched to a surrey parked in the breezeway.

"Yassuh... but..."

"I don't care who it's promised to! First come, first served! I need that rig NOW. Not this afternoon, not tomorrow, but RIGHT NOW!"

"But suh..."

"Listen here, Rastus... I'm a Pinkerton agent... a VERY IMPORTANT MAN with no time to waste arguing with some nappy-headed fool. If I don't get that buggy RIGHT AWAY, I'll see to it your darkie ass is horsewhipped and this establishment is blacklisted! Understand?"

"Yassuh... I sho does..." Orrie showed the whites of his eyes and shuffled away to lead out the team.

Ben remained hidden until the obnoxious agent drove off, then emerged to ease up next to Orrie, who was visibly outraged and evidently forgetful of the fact that Ben was also a white man.

"Darkie my ass, you bigoted peckerhead motherf... oh... sorry..."

"I'm guessing that was the buggy intended for us?"

"Yeah... sorry about that." Orrie shrugged. "Hope you understand we can't afford to antagonize superior clientele like that rat bastard. Pinkertons pay top dollar and they _do_ have enough influence to damage our reputation."

"You got anything else we could use?"

"No... everything else's checked out for the day. It'll be too late by the time anyone returns for you to start out for Sherman's place. We've got plenty of saddle horses, but..."

Ben grinned. "That'll work... we're all pretty good riders. I think we'd do all right. Why don't you pick out four and saddle 'em up while I go tell the girls?"

"Wait a minute... did my mother warn you about the bandits?"

"The rustlers, you mean? Why would they bother us? We don't have any cattle."

"It's not cattle they're after, it's horses. And maybe young girls... brothels _also_ pay top dollar, if you get my meaning."

"You're joking..."

"You handy with a gun?"

"Not pistols, no. But we all know how to use rifles and shotguns, for hunting."

Orrie nodded. "I'm sure my father'll loan you a couple of shotguns... in fact, he'll probably insist. Ma's got a key to the gunsafe in the house."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. But here's the thing... when you get there, make sure you keep your hands away from them... especially if..."

"Jess Harper? Your momma told me. You two aren't exactly rays of sunshine."

"Not a laughing matter. He's fast... and accurate. He'd take you out first. Might think twice about shooting girls but I wouldn't count on that."

"You're about to talk me out of going altogether."

"Just keep alert, stay on the road, and don't haul out those guns unless you have to."

"We'll be back as soon as they can get changed."

"Okay then..."

 **Rusty and Ruth Ann were turning off** the main road onto the trail that'd brought them down.

"I've changed my mind about you girls leaving this afternoon. Stay where you are until tomorrow morning... just in case something goes wrong and we have to come back."

"Won't that put you ahead of us at the meeting place?" Ruth Ann questioned. Rusty never mentioned the possibility of raids going bad unless he had a premonition... which she suspected might be the case. What she really wanted to ask was, what could go wrong? But that might jinx the operation, which had happened once before—Elliott'd come back with a bullet in his leg and Rusty with one in his shoulder. They'd both been laid up for weeks.

"Maybe... but it's probably better that way. One of us can watch the road and flag you down. Anyone coming along will assume a lone rider is just a hunter going after antelope."

They had to proceed single file as the trail narrowed, which precluded any further conversation. The longer they rode in silence, the more contentious Ruth Ann was feeling. Truth to tell, she was tired of this nomadic existence on the margins of society. In the beginning she and her sisters had been heady with relief at having escaped the terror of their sadistic stepfather, and rather thrilled at being accepted into a gang of outlaws which at the time had numbered four.

The original lone female member—the native girl, Chana, pleased to have the companionship of her own gender—had determinedly set about teaching them native domestic skills. Ruth Ann later learned that it was Chana's brother Chip who'd talked the leader into taking them on, arguing that they'd be an enhancement rather than an impediment. After all, a tribe's women were the ones who did all the grunt work… and they had only the one. Three more would come in real handy… especially for cooking and washing clothes.

Ruth Ann'd immediately lost her heart to Rusty. He wasn't the most handsome man in the world but she adored him. She dreamed of their marrying some day and having a real home of their own—on that ranch he'd once mentioned was his ultimate goal. With all the others, naturally. She imagined Cindy pairing up with Elliott, Ellie with Chip, and Chana with Coyote. They'd find some nice brown-skinned girl for Ferret. The other three boys still had some growing up to do.

Rusty had initially maintained a reserved distance from Ruth Ann, reasoning that physical involvement would interfere with their working relationship. That hadn't been an issue at first... when he was sixteen to her fourteen. But that had changed five months ago on the first occasion of their having to overnight in a hotel, posing as husband and wife. At nineteen and seventeen, respectively, instinct and hormones had triumphed over inhibitions and prudence... with the inevitable result.

So far Ruth Ann hadn't confided in any of the other three girls and certainly hadn't said anything to Rusty. Being slightly on the pudgy side, she could get away with a little extra heft… but it wouldn't be too much longer before someone noticed. And it was past time to put an end to this Robin Hood freebooting nonsense and start living like normal people. Trouble was, Rusty and the boys were liking it too much. The only way they'd _stop_ liking it would be if they were to fail... spectacularly. With an idea how that could be accomplished, Ruth Ann began formulating her _own_ plans for tonight's business.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Wednesday, July 22:**_ _Don't usually write this early in the day but I'm waiting for the girls to finish getting ready. When I got back to the house they'd already got into their dresses and were fixing each other's hair. They weren't all that happy about having to change back into boy clothes because we'd be riding horses instead of a buggy, but agreed we needed to get on with our mission as soon as possible. Missus Jackson asked if they had proper boots and hats. Short answer: No. She said she had some of Orrie's stuff put back from when he was younger as he'd outgrown them faster than they wore out. Saving them for when Anthony grows up, I suppose. That's what Ma did with Josh and Jimmy's stuff and I wore all their hand-me-downs. Good thing they weren't sisters._

 _Missus Jackson's in a storage room somewhere with the girls, picking out hats and boots and some boy clothes for Eddie. Before that she went to the gunsafe and chose small-bore shotguns for Max and me. Doubt we'll need them but I guess these folks know better than we do what's necessary. I'm beginning to understand just_ _how much different_ _life is out here compared to back home._

 _I guess they're taking so long on account of it's_ _so_ _important to make sure colors match or some such female foolishess. Probably complaining the hats'll mess up their hair-dos. Oh good... they're done. Finally. We can leave now._


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14—_ **UNMANNERLY PEOPLE**

" **Any word on those raiders?"** Slim was inquiring of Mose, who was about to hoist himself back up onto the coach.

"Nope. Nothin' yet. Town's pretty quiet. Alla stores done sold outta ammo, though. You'uns pree-pared?"

"As much as we'll ever be. Take care, Mose. See you this afternoon."

Slim returned to the forge lean-to, where Jess and Andy were working on a mare. As the broodmares were never ridden, they were left unshod but their hooves still required periodic trimming. Her foal was gamboling in the sideyard, having a rousing good time scattering chickens and playing tag with Mike.

"Might as well go ahead and put shoes on those other two going to Doc Adam... coming to get 'em by Saturday, he said."

"You gonna help or let me an' Andy have all the fun?" Introducing the vet's acquisitions to the process would take persuasion and muscle.

"No... you and the future Harvard valedictorian can handle it. I've got to ride over to Bartlett's and see when would be a good time to borrow his mower. Shouldn't be gone more'n an hour or two." Slim strolled off, chuckling.

"What'd he call you?" Jess looked at Andy.

"Something I'll never be," Andy grimaced.

"Hand me that rasp, willya?"

All three were in fairly good moods, considering they were short of sleep. They'd taken turns mounting a nightwatch from the roof of the house, which gave a commanding view of the immediate surroundings including the front and back of the barn. Despite being proud at having been selected for first watch and armed with a rifle, Andy grumbled.

"How long are we gonna have to keep on guard?"

"Til we either catch some thieves in the act or get word they've moved on west a here."

 **Long about midmorning,** a surrey came tootling along the stage road from the direction of Laramie and drove right up to the front porch hitch rail. Daisy, sweeping the floorboards, stopped to greet the pinch-faced little man who hopped down and strutted around to ascend the steps without an invitation. _Rude and impolite and just not done!_ Already she didn't like him. But she wasn't afraid. Andy'd gone to answer a call of nature but, over at the forge, Jess'd paused and straightened up, on point as usual. The man grudgingly tipped his bowler a quarter inch in acknowledgment of her being a female.

"May I help you?"

"Name's Hiram Rademacher, m'am. Pinkerton agent. Looking for four runaways—three girls and a boy."

"Haven't seen them." Daisy wasn't usually this curt but she didn't appreciate subpar behavior from a man who should know better.

"Got to reason to believe they might be around here... on this property. This _is_ the Sherman place, isn't it?"

"It is and they're not. Can you speak up some? I'm a bit hard of hearing." That had the desired effect of causing the man to raise his voice loud enough that it carried over to the forge.

"Mind if I have a look around?"

"I do mind. You have no authority here."

"Madam, I am a licensed investigator and I intend to search these premises." Mister Rademacher attempted to sidestep her through the door. Daisy backed up, holding her broom sideways to bar ingress.

"Step aside, madam."

"I will not. Get back in that vehicle and leave right this instant... or else!" Daisy's own voice had risen as well.

"Or else what?" the man sneered, grabbing the broom from her hands.

Which is when Jess shot the bowler right off Mister Rademacher's head.

The little man leaped backwards and tumbled into the rosebushes it'd taken Daisy three years to coax back to health. He lay there stunned and twitching. Jess made it to the porch in three seconds, putting a protective arm around the elderly woman. Aiming his iron directly at Mister Rademacher's crotch, he repeated her directive in his distinctive growl.

The Pinkerton agent's face was beet red. Scrambling to his trotters he made a beeline for the surrey and shook his fist threateningly.

"I'll be back... with a warrant!"

"You do that, mister. I'll be waitin' on ya."

The surrey careened away in a boil of dust.

"What was all that about, Daisy?"

"I have no idea. Something about runaways... he seemed to think we had them."

"Runaway _whats?_ "

"Children. Didn't have a chance to ask any more before _somebody_ shot him."

"Now Daisy... I was real careful to _not_ shoot him… just his hat. If I meant to hit 'im, he'd be dead an' you'd be makin' me scrub blood puddles offa the porch."

Daisy glanced down "Oh dear! I'm afraid the gentleman forgot his bowler."

Jess stepped over as if to pick it up, then accidentally on purpose squashed it with a manure-encrusted boot.

"Oops! No matter. He can get it when he comes back with that warrant."

They were both laughing when Andy came running from the outhouse, demanding to know what happened.

"I'da paid good money to see that," he lamented.

The three returned to their chores. When Slim returned some two hours later, no one thought to tell him about the incident.

 **Jess was leading the last mare** into her box with Andy hazing along her playful foal. Slim had finally dug his way to the far back corner of the barn and the jumbles of old farming implements that hadn't seen daylight in many years. Among them was an object draped in rotted canvas that crumbled to the touch. Pulling the ancient fabric away in handfuls, Slim whistled as his eyes widened in surprised recognition.

"I'll be darned! Forgot this was back here!"

Naturally, Andy and Jess had to go see what 'this' was.

"Oh... it's just an old plow," Andy said, disappointed.

"Not just _any_ old plow... I used it to till Ma's vegetable garden when I was a little shaver. Pa built this one special... three-quarter size so a woman or a kid could handle it in a small space." The implement was in perfect condition—before it had been put away the wooden handles had been heavily oiled and the metal surfaces liberally greased.

"I don't remember Ma having a vegetable garden... only Jonesy's and it wasn't big enough to need a plow... just a spade... and it's all grown over now."

"There wasn't any town back then, Andy—just a trading post. We grew most of our own food. After Pa died and with me gone, it got down to just Jonesy and Ma and you, so they didn't need as big a garden."

Hitching a haunch on a barrel, Slim's face was aglow with nostalgia as he continued on this rare excursion into the past. "We had this old ox called Mercury—gentle as a kitten. He was the last of the team that brought our family west on the wagon train. There were eight in all and Pa named 'em after planets—Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Earth. When Mercury got too old for field work Pa was gonna slaughter him but Ma wouldn't let him. She made a pet out of him and he could still pull this little plow."

"I don't remember an ox, either."

"No... you wouldn't. He died before you were born. Ma said he was twenty-five years old by then."

"Is this something we need or does it go in the junk pile?" Andy asked.

"I can think of a good use for it right now. You know how Daisy's been pestering us to put in a vegetable garden?"

Jess groaned under his breath, knowing what was coming next. The many childhood hours he'd spent trudging behind a mule in the cotton fields didn't inspire any fond memories. He leaned back against a support column, waiting to see how long it would take for Andy to catch on to what Slim had in mind.

Not long. Andy took a hop backwards. "I don't know how to plow!"

"No. But your friend there can teach you."

"There's no room for a garden anymore."

"Sure there is... between the washhouse and the outhouse. You can start this afternoon. Shouldn't take you too long to clear it out... it's mostly grass."

"Shit," Jess muttered.

Slim snapped his fingers. "That reminds me... it's about time to..."

It was Jess' turn to back up. "Oh no... no no no!"

"Well... it has to be moved _sometime_. The pit's about full and it's getting pretty ripe."

"Can't it wait until fall?"

"I suppose so. But I want you two to get started on Daisy's garden. There's still a lot of daylight left."


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15—_ **LOST IN THE WILDERNESS**

" **Honestly! Didn't you think** to ask for directions?" Maxine sniped, annoyed because damp ringlets insisted on creeping out from under her hat and sticking to her overheated face.

"I _got_ directions," Ben insisted, equally hot and grumpy. Orrie'd told him just follow the stage road east and it would take them straight to the ranch. What Orrie _didn't_ tell him was that it wasn't straight _and_ it was all uphill. Nor did he mention a division in the road with each fork appearing equally wagon-tracked and well-traveled. Where a helpful sign _should_ have been there remained only a jagged stump.

"Great. Which way, Doctor Livingstone?" Max sneered.

"Oh ha ha. How should I know?"

"Are we lost?" Tabbie inquired unhappily.

"Maybe beavers ate the sign," Eddie unhelpfully contributed.

"Do you see any trees... or rivers? Do you see any beavers? If you can't say anything sensible, just shut up!"

"Don't yell at her!" Max yelled.

There wasn't much of anything to see besides dry, barren, grass-covered rolling hills dotted with the occasional clump of bushes and a scraggly tree or two. They'd been riding for hours and the only manmade structures they'd passed were relics of abandoned farmsteads.

"How many miles have we come already?" Eddie asked. That seemed like a reasonable question.

"Do I look like surveyor to you?" Ben shot back.

"What you look like is a moron who's got us lost, is what," Max said.

"We should turn back," Tabbie whined.

Ben'd had enough. "You know what? I'm going that way." He pointed to the right fork. "You crybabies can follow or turn back. I don't care." He _did_ care but was counting on them to follow... which they reluctantly did after he'd advanced a hundred yards.

The left fork was soon lost to sight behind a hillock, so they weren't aware of the jolting buggy and lathered team being lashed toward town by a hatless man.

Following the sinuous road, they ascended higher and higher into the foothills. By high noon they'd emptied the canteens Orrie'd provided and the girls were complaining of thirst. Luckily, they happened on a tiny spring-fed pool in a grove of aspens, where Ben caved in to the girls' demands for a rest. They were also hungry and broke out the sack of hand-held edibles Missus Jackson had packed just in case they were in need of a snack—soda crackers, hard cheese and jerky.

"Better save some of that," Ben said.

"Why?" Tabbie said through a mouthful of cracker. "Surely we've come far enough the ranch should be just up ahead."

"Why is it so hard to breathe, Ben?" Eddie asked.

"Ask Tabbie... she's the one who knows everything."

"It's the elevation, Ed," Tabbie said. "I read up on it at the library. At home we're only four hundred feet above sea level... Laramie's at seven thousand and I'm sure we've gone up another thousand since we got lost."

"We are _not_ lost," Ben gritted.

"Oh yeah? Well, what do you call it when you don't know where you are and you sure as heck aren't where you're supposed to be?" Tabbie sneered. "I'd call that lost, wouldn't you, Max?"

"Yup. I'd call it lost, all right. The question is, how long are we going to stay that way?"

The answer to that question turned out to be all afternoon and into twilight. Ben was finally forced to admit he'd got them well and truly lost.

"Like the Israelites in the wilderness," Max said, adding, "for the next forty years."

"You mean... we have to spend the night out here... with no food, no blankets, nothing?" Tabbie wailed.

Eddie started sniffling. "What if a bear comes and tries to eat us?"

"We'll shoot him," Ben asserted with a confidence he certainly wasn't feeling.

"I've got a better idea," Max said. "Let's shoot Ben."

 **Meanwhile, not that far away...** the raiding party was assembling. Rusty and Elliott checked everyone's gear to make sure each had enough halters and lead lines—cumbersome but necessary. The idea was to smuggle a horse gently and soundlessly out of its enclosure, not drive it out with whoops and hollers and thundering hoofbeats. Off every pommel hung a small sack of crabapples—enticements—and another of dried venison, to appease any dogs they might encounter. A pack mule was loaded with everything necessary to enable four people to camp out for three to four days and certain specialized implements—the best way of covering evidence of a shod horse being removal of its shoes. Everyone was wearing dark clothing and carrying a tin of ground charcoal with which to darken his face. Except Ferret, of course. As dusk descended they moved out.

While the raiders'd napped in the afternoon, Ruth Ann'd eased the maps out of Rusty's worn courier bag and sketched crude but legible copies. On the pretense of bathing, the girls'd gone off to a secluded area within a copse of alders where they'd created a shallow pool by damming up the creek. There, where they were assured of an undisturbed conference, Ruth Ann'd presented her own agenda and outlined how they were going to go about it.

They were _not_ taking a separate route around the north side of Laramie. They were _not_ breaking camp. What they _were_ going to do was follow the boys as close as they dared, roughly thirty minutes behind... and sabotage the hell out of this raid. And _then_ they were going on strike. The other three girls were in favor.

Returning to the campsite, they'd bustled around long enough to give the appearance of preparing to break camp. After the boys had gone, they'd saddled their own horses. The only weapons the boys hadn't taken with them were lightweight shotguns loaded with birdshot. These Ruth Ann'd distributed among herself and her co-conspirators... not as a self-defense measure but to create as much noise and disruption as they possibly could.

 **Back in town...** at first, Martha Jackson hadn't unduly worried about her boarders having failed to return by suppertime. Perhaps they'd been invited to eat with the Shermans. By sundown, she figured that they were just late in returning and surely Slim or Jess would ride along to see them back safely. By nine o'clock, she felt in her bones that something was amiss.

"Orville... go over to Missus Bailey's boarding house and ask Mose if those young people were there when he came through on the four o'clock. Avery... you and I need to pay a visit to Mort Corey."

"Now Martha... I sure dey both abed this hour. No need botherin' 'em."

"We're going. Or I'll go by myself if I have to."

"Lemme jus' get my coat," her husband sighed.

Mort answered the door in his nightshirt, stepping outside to avoid disturbing his aged father who lived with him. After hearing Martha's brief and hurried description of the circumstances, he nodded.

"Gimme a few minutes while I get my britches on."

Nine-thirty found them congregated in the sheriff's office along with two sleepy-eyed deputies. Everyone found a place to sit. Avery reported that Mose knew nothing of any young people at the Shermans'.

Sheriff Corey cleared his throat. "Ordinarily I wouldn't have turned out this time of night for something as unimportant as a runaway... but two things happened today that confirm your story, Miz Jackson. A Pinkerton man came in to file a complaint against Daisy Cooper and some yahoo he claims tried to kill him. My bet would be on Jess Harper..." Corey paused to chuckle. "Any more sass outta him and I might've been tempted to shoot him myself. Anyway, he was spoutin' all sorts of gibberish about some runaways he was after on the Sherman ranch. Wanted a search warrant. Told him I needed proof and kicked him out."

"Damned near kilt two a my horses," Avery said. "Might hafta file suit 'gainst them Pinkatons fo damages."

Corey continued. "An hour later I got a wire from a constable back in Pennsylvania... a BOLO for four missing teenagers suspected to be in the vicinity."

"What's a bolo?" Orrie asked.

"B.O.L.O. Be on the lookout... so now we know they're here."

"Not _here..._ " Martha interjected quietly. "Out _there_... somewhere. We have to find them. They're just children... alone... and they don't know anything about this country. They could be in real trouble."

"I know that, Miz Jackson," Mort said, "but it's dark and we don't have the first idea where to start looking. Best wait 'til morning."

"What about tracker dogs, sir?" one of the deputies suggested.

"That'd work if they were afoot... but they're mounted. Now, I'm willing to ride out to the ranch tonight but I'll need volunteers. One of my men needs to stay here." Corey pulled out his pocketwatch. "If we go now and ride hard we can get there by one o'clock."

"I'll go," the deputy called Emmett said.

"Orrie an' me'll go," Avery added.

"Then let's get started."


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16—_ **THE CURTAIN RISES**

 **Jess Harper was on the rooftop** of the ranch house. He'd turned in directly after supper so he'd be awake and alert when it came time to relieve Andy at midnight. Slim would take over from three to dawn. Comfortable enough with his back against the still-warm chimney stones, he surveyed his surroundings, bathed in the faint luminescence of a quarter moon... what they called a rustler's moon.

Conditions were perfect for a night raid… and he should know, having participated in a number of them in his youth. Just enough light to navigate around obstacles and follow a trail or a roadbed. Not so much that an intruder risked exposure and identification before reaching his objective. Although the night was still and near windless when he'd first come up, Jess noted a thin band of clouds creeping up on the far southwestern horizon. Not good.

Approaching one o'clock, Jess'd neither seen nor heard anything out of the ordinary... only the usual nocturnally active critters—an owl, a brace of weasels, several rats. In the distance, a bachelor coyote's mournful yodel. Yet his nervous system thrummed with a tension that'd persisted all day... like the vibrations of a telegraph wire. When he'd mentioned his forebodings to Slim, his partner had brushed them off.

"You're beginning to sound like Jonesy, with his sacroiliac forecasting rain."

"Yeah... an' he was usually right. I'm tellin' ya, Slim... somethin's comin'."

Jess didn't need three hundred sixty degrees of surveillance range. In his head he'd already plotted from which directions an attack would most likely come and his excellent peripheral vision encompassed all of them. He couldn't see directly behind him—the chimney stack and the line of trees on both sides of the creek screened the stage road in that direction. But that was all right. No robber in his right mind would be bold or stupid enough to be advancing right down the main drag. He did have an unobstructed view of the thoroughfare as it passed in front of the house and wound eastward up the hill. A rifle lay across his lap. Arranged on a folded blanket within grab reach were a shotgun, two pistols and a carton each of bullets and shells. He was ready.

 **About one o'clock** Jess' presentiments were substantiated when he glimpsed movement to his right. A shadow detached itself from the woods behind the mares' paddock and stopped at the corner of the fence, not bulky enough for an ungulate of any kind. A fleeting consideration that it might be a smallish bear standing upright was quickly dispelled when a similar shape followed and joined the first. Definitely two humans. Probably having a discussion with regard to the unoccupied pasture. How could they have known _which_ pasture to target? The twin shapes slunk along the fenceline between it and the cow pasture. Too far away to aim with any accuracy.

Earlier, when Slim and Jess'd been debating how a roof watcher could convey a silent alert to the floor below without leaving his post, it'd been Daisy who'd come up with a simple solution—a length of cordage secured at roof level, passing through the attic and ceiling hatches to the parlor, with a trio of tin cups and some spoons attached to the other end. A tug by the watcher produced a jangle audible inside the house but not outside.

Less than a minute after Jess sounded the alarm, Andy poked his head up through the access hatch to the roof. He, Slim, Daisy and Mike had been dozing fully dressed in the parlor.

"Two. Comin' up by the cow pasture, headin' for the barn. Not close enough yet."

Andy vanished below. Turning his attention to the steadily creeping shapes, Jess almost missed movement on the stage road where it disappeared over the crest of the hill toward the east. Riders in a cluster—he couldn't tell how many. Still keeping an eye on the footpads, he marked the group moving very slowly down the incline then halting midway when a chorus of curious whickers floated uphill from the pasture out front. Again he tugged on the improvised alarm system. This time Slim popped up.

"Three or four on the stage road... comin' in from the east. Must be the rest a the gang."

"Okay... you take 'em... Andy and I'll go for the ones after the barn."

Slim'd already arranged that he'd man the front porch and Andy'd stand on a box in the washroom, using the high casement window as an embrasure. They needed only a signal from Jess to commence fire. Daisy'd been instructed to remain in the far back corner of the parlor, which offered the best protection against bullet penetration, making sure Mike stayed right at her side.

 **Cold and now very scared** (even Ben admitting such), the non-criminal delegation had voted to keep going, even though Ben felt it was long past time to give up—stop, build a campfire, tough it out. Suddenly, that endless weary road—which had taken them past an eerie derelict cemetery—intersected a wider and better-maintained highway. Had to be the stage road. Had to be some habitation _somewhere_ along it.

 **A half-mile behind,** four near-winded horses loped along, Sheriff Mort Corey in the lead, wishing he'd stood his ground and insisted they wait until morning to embark on this snipe hunt.

 **Jess crawled to the edge of the roof,** dragging along the guns on their blanket. The low parapet provided steady support for his rifle, now trained on the group again moving down the hill at a slow walk. Waiting for his quarry to come within range, he continued watching the shadow oozing alongside the barn toward the front entrance—Slim's target. The second one had disappeared into the attached byre in search of a rear door. Wouldn't do him any good as it'd been barred from the inside. That one would be in Andy's crosshairs once he came out again.

And now, dammitall, yet two _more_ shadows had appeared near the mares' pasture, not yet visible to the sharpshooters below. Three against seven or more weren't good odds but the home crew had the advantage of a surprise defense... he hoped. Since he couldn't monitor both directions, he returned to sighting on the road travelers.

Jess' finger was about to squeeze the trigger when a fresh flurry of whinnies heralded the approach of _another_ set of riders from the western corridor. _Aha... the old pincer strategy!_ He couldn't see them yet, because of the trees and the bend in the road, but he could hear splashing as they crossed the ford... and voices. What kind of amateur sideshow was this, anyway? What moron in charge of these halfwits forgot to inform them that they were supposed to be _quiet_... and _sneaky_?

Crabbing backwards to the chimney, Jess gave a succession of hard jerks on the cord. He suppressed an epithet when, presently, Daisy's head appeared.

"You got no business on that ladder! Where're Slim and Andy?"

"Right where they're supposed to be, dear," Daisy demurred. "And I'm the only courier available. Do you have a message... or further instructions?"

No time to argue or scold. "Tell 'em hold their positions an' focus on the barn. There's two on foot comin' from the back. The riders've split up... more comin' in from the west. I'll take _them_ , too... an' for Pete's sake be careful goin' down that ladder!"

Scooting back to the parapet and repositioning himself so that he had a better view of both ends of the road, Jess got an unwelcome surprise. Serried ranks of stratocumulus were breezing in much faster than he'd anticipated. The diffused edge of the first cloud was already beginning to veil the moon. In minutes it would be overhead and the riders lost in the dark until the cloud passed over and the moon peeped through. He'd have only a few precious moments to reacquire his targets before the next skein of clouds hid them again. In the meantime, he hunkered down, relying on his hearing to judge how far both sets of riders had advanced.

 **Topping the ridge,** Ruth Ann's fireteam had paused to survey what lay below. There it was, tucked away in a hollow—the first ranch on the hit list... house, barn, outbuildings, corral. No smoke trickling from the chimney, residents most likely sound asleep. Out in front of the house a big fenced pasture. What could be seen of it included many dark horse-shaped blobs. All seemed quiet so she motioned to move forward. At the unwelcome greetings from the pastured horses, they halted in their tracks, just in case the noise brought a response from the house. When it didn't, she again motioned to proceed down the winding road.

Her plan was to get close enough so that when they instigated their diversion, the clamor would bring the residents running outside. Rusty and his crew would be forced to decamp empty-handed. Then she and the girls would hightail it back up the road and be long gone before the ranch folks could give chase.

Ruth Ann didn't know how far gunfire might carry at night. If Elliott could hear them while carrying out a simultaneous raid on the next ranch a few miles away he'd no doubt abort. If he didn't... well... he and his crew would just have to go ahead with their assignment and take their chances. Ruth Ann and the girls'd had a truncated debate about pulling the same stunt on his team... but that would've worked only if they'd split up into pairs and the other girls were adamantly opposed.

"We need to move in closer," Ruth Ann whispered to her accomplices. "We want the people in the house to think they're being attacked."

"If we get _too_ close they might shoot us," Cindy Lou objected.

"We'll only go as far as the corner of that pasture, shoot into the air, then turn around and race right back up here out of range."

Chana whispered urgently. "Wait... I thought I saw something moving..."

"Where?"

"There... on the roof of the house..."

"I don't see anything... your eyes are playing tricks on you."

"Heard something, too... horses."

"No kidding!"

"No... not _those_ horses... other ones, moving on dirt, not grass. And voices..."

"Chana... there's no one out there... we're the only ones on the road... let's go."

The native girl shrugged and moved in behind Ruth Ann. No use arguing that her aboriginal instinct outstripped the white girl's. Something wasn't right... and the unexpected arrival of cloud cover confirmed her gut feeling that this was an inauspicious night for a counter-raid.

They continued to the bottom of the incline where the road made a sharp turn around the corner of the pasture fence. Pulling up after the curve and close to the corral, Ruth Ann changed her mind about shooting into the air. Wouldn't all those pellets just come raining back down on their heads? Amending her instructions to aiming straight ahead down that empty stretch of road before them, she was about to signal time...

 **Coming up on a ford** where the creek crossed the road, Ben and his entourage'd had trouble convincing their horses that the wide but shallow stretch of water did not constitute a life-threatening obstacle. They balked and snorted and danced sideways until Ben's mount opted for a mad dash across. Not to be abandoned, the other three splashed noisily behind, whereupon all four evidently took the notion that haste would save them from the terrors of water monsters. The riders were being quite vocal while fighting their steeds back to a sedate walk as they rounded a bend in the road... and were rewarded by a moonlit scenario of habitation and a fenced pasture full of horse shapes. Maybe it was the Shermans' place, maybe not. Didn't matter. _Someone_ lived there. _Rescue at last!_

The girls were eager to surge forward until, in a stage whisper, Ben commanded them to stop. "We can't just charge in there like a herd of Mongols and scare those folks out of their beds."

"Fine. We'll wait out front while you politely go and knock on the door," Max opined.

"That's not how they do things out here... you have to stop at a respectable distance and shout 'hello the house' or something like that... and wait until someone comes outside."

"Whatever," Max snorted. "All I know is my butt's numb and we need food and sleep."

"Just a few more minutes and... _what the?_ "


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17:_ **CROSSFIRES AND ANGELS**

 **The two parties became aware** of each other's presence just as clouds obscured the moon, plunging the entire scene into impenetrable, if temporary, darkness. No one could see a thing.

 _Posse!_ Ruth Ann thought belatedly even as _'now!'_ left her lips and four weapons discharged in the general direction of the oncoming group—which they could no longer see.

 _Bandits!_ Ben was thinking, pulling up hard and causing all four horses to bumble into one another just as the first spray of birdshot hit them. Tabbie and Eddie screamed. Max cursed. Scared witless, Ben pulled out his shotgun and shot back in the general direction of the muzzle flashes.

From the rooftop, Jess shot first in the general direction of the first group, then twisted sideways to get a couple off at the new arrivals.

Down below, Slim and Andy were blazing away in the general direction of the barn.

Hearing the gunfire in the distance, the _real_ posse urged their mounts to greater speed, trusting them to stick to the roadbed.

 **The barrage of crossfire continued** under the disorienting strobophobic effect of moonlight appearing and disappearing between successive drifts of clouds. Visibility was becoming further impaired by the pall of gunsmoke lingering in the atmosphere. Amid squeals of terrified horses, human shouting and percussive reports it began filtering into Jess' brain that something mighty peculiar was going on here...

 _Why're they shootin' at each other? Unless... it's two_ different _gangs?_

Furthermore, the high-pitched shrieks coming from _both_ directions sure didn't sound like grown men...

 _What in Sam Hill? Women... or children?_

In the next sweep of moonlight, he tore his focus away from the road long enough to catch the gunplay between Slim and the fellow at the front of the barn. Slim's second or third shot dropped him, not before the intruder got off a few of his own. The one departing the byre didn't escape Andy's aim—which, unfortunately, didn't take him out of the action. He, too, was on the ground... but shooting back.

Peering back through the scrim to the eastern group, Jess could barely make out three dismounted figures—one standing, two down. One horse bucking, one down, two horses bolting for the ridge—one ridden, one riderless. Over at the western group—two figures down. One horse down, one attempting to get away, one riderless horse making a break for the brush and one with a rider streaking away in the direction from which it'd arrived.

As it appeared the two groups were temporarily occupied and making no effort to escape, Jess turned his attention back to the second pair of brigands on foot... now haring back toward the woods and out of Slim's or Andy's line of sight.

 _Damn if I'm lettin' 'em get away!_

Duckwalking in a crouch to the backside of the flat roof where it adjoined the pitched roof of the washhouse, Jess straightened up to step over the parapet. Too late he realized his tactical error in presenting an irresistible silhouette—backlit by moonglow—to the shooter on the ground at the rear of the barn.

 **Ruth Ann's first volley** had nicked Edwina's earlobe. The girl's screech startled her horse into bucking her off before tearing out into the brush and away from the road. Chana's pellets peppered Tabbie's horse in the rump. She lost control as it spun around and took off around the bend. Furious and frightened, Max wasted no time in extracting her own shotgun and returning fire as her horse sighed and slowly collapsed under her, its jugular having been pierced by a bullet. Ben managed to get off several more shots before stinging pains in his left shoulder and upper arm caused him to drop his weapon. He, too, parted company from his crowhopping mount and was dragged several feet by the reins wrapped around his left fist.

Ben's first shot had also found a mark—spraying Cindy Lou's mount in the legs, causing it to rear and rolling her backwards out of the saddle. No sooner had she scrambled to her feet then she was again knocked down by Ruth Ann having fallen on top of her when her own horse dropped like a stone—drilled between the eyes. Torn between helping her friends and saving her own skin, Chana kicked her horse into a hasty retreat uphill, followed by Cindy Lou's maddened mount. Ellie's horse tossed her off before coming to a wheezing, trembling standstill.

The entire melee had lasted less than a handful of minutes. The only participants left unscathed by gunfire were Andy and Daisy in the house, Maxine and Ruth Ann in their respective sections of road, Tabbie on her runaway horse and the two men who'd got away into the woods behind the barn. Slim had sustained a minor graze to the left side of his head above the ear.

Another bank of clouds scudding across the moon lent a chiaroscuro effect to the scene of carnage.

 **The posse'd had to sacrifice a few minutes** intercepting that runaway horse and rescuing its hapless rider. By the time the sheriff and his cohorts arrived on the scene with Tabbie in tow, the moon was again peeping out from behind a diaphanous veil. All gunfire had ceased and the only sounds were the moans and cries of humans and the snorting and snuffling of agitated horses. Slim was cautiously stalking toward the barn, pistol at the ready in case the crumpled form by the door was playing possum. Behind him, Andy was inching out onto the front porch with one arm around Daisy and holding up a lantern with the other. Daisy in turn had a firm grip on Mike's shirt collar to prevent him from dashing out into yard.

The posse halted at the first group where a girl sat splay-legged in the dirt next to a dead horse, with a second girl kneeling beside her. The boy, though shaky, was on his feet only by virtue of having a horse to hang onto. Sheriff Corey directed an inquiring glance at Avery Jackson.

"These them?"

"Yep."

The next question went to Ben. "Any of you people hurt bad?"

"No, sir. Don't think so."

"Son. You know you been shot?"

Only then did Ben realize blood was streaming down his arm and dripping in the dirt. He promptly passed out.

Avery sighed, dismounting. "Orrie an' me'll take care o' dis. Look like you got you some more hurt folk over yonder, Mort."

Farther along they could see another set of riders, two on the ground near an evidently dead horse and one clinging to the reins of a very much live one.

"Emmett... go see to those three, wouldja? But keep your gun on 'em..."

"Yessir."

 **Calling to Andy** to bring out more lanterns, Corey walked over to where Slim was kneeling to examine the body outside the barn door.

"Dead?"

"Not yet... but will be soon enough. Gut shot."

"Pity you couldn't have held off until _after_ he had a stolen horse in hand."

Slim craned his head up, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Someone tries to break into _my_ barn and _I_ have to prove intent?"

"The barn door isn't even open and possession is nine-tenths, etc. You know that, Slim. I have to consider other possibilities..."

"Don't quote law to me, Mort. I'm not in the mood for it right now."

"Just sayin'... a jury might wonder if maybe he was just a bum lookin' for a place to sleep."

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"On the side of the law... always."

"Arrest 'im for trespassing, then. Arrest all of 'em."

"Technically, the stage road isn't private property. The county holds right of way."

"Not at my barn door, it doesn't!" Slim bit back an additional angry retort. Mort was right, of course... everyone was expected to abide by legally enacted laws... but then, everyone also recognized certain _unwritten_ laws. "We'll argue about this later. Right now we've got a mess to sort out. You'll find another man around back behind the forge."

Andy and Daisy arrived, each carrying two lanterns, one of which Andy handed to Corey as they met. Just as Mort passed out of sight at the corner, an isolated gunshot rang out toward the back of the barn. The remaining three froze.

"Some folks just don't know when to stop," Slim muttered, assuming it was Jess who'd fired.

Disregarding Slim's complaint that she shouldn't have ventured outside, Daisy stepped around him to hold the light over the wounded man's face. "Why... he's just a boy! We have to get him into the house right away... oh! And you, too!"

"Just a graze... not bad. There're more wounded. You'd better go in and start setting up for incoming. Andy, you stay with me."

Daisy returned to the house without additional comment. Slim stood up as the moon disappeared behind the next cloud. "Gimme one of those lanterns and keep an eye on this one."

 **Hurrying around the side of the barn,** Slim shouted toward the rooftop. "Jess... hold your fire... you might hit one of us." He experienced a moment of unease at the lack of response, but first he needed to see to Mort. Still nettled, he was relieved to find the sheriff standing unharmed over another inert form.

"This one's an Indian..." Mort observed.

"Whaddya do? Put him out of his misery? How does that fit in with the law?"

Mort ignored the sarcasm. "Just passed out. Took a shot at me but missed. We'll need help moving 'im."

Slim tilted his head toward the roofline. Calling to Jess and getting no reply, he figured his partner must've already gone below.

"How many dead out on the road, Mort?"

"None I could see, right off."

"How's that even possible? All of us blundering around in the dark, shooting at shadows..."

"Beats me. The Grim Reaper must be busy somewhere else tonight."

"Sometimes the angels _are_ on our side," Slim sighed.


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18:_ **THE RECONSTITUTED NURSE**

 **During a break in the clouds,** Deputy Emmett'd sighted in on that trio of culprits he'd been sent to fetch... but it was dark again by the time he got close... too dark to see that they weren't in fact what he assumed they were.

"Drop your guns. First one moves is a dead man," he cautioned.

"Already dropped 'em, mister," the smallest one—the one hanging onto the live horse—squeaked in a high voice. "Please don't shoot us."

"You two on the ground... get up and don't try any funny stuff," he advised gruffly.

"We won't give you any trouble," the larger one assured him, though not standing up as directed. The one sitting nearby, crying softly, also made no move to arise.

Emmett was beginning to catch on... and the next spell of moonlight confirmed his suspicion. "You're... _girls!_ "

"We were this morning," the larger one said sourly. "Reckon there's nothing we can do about it now."

The deputy quickly recovered. "Don't get smart with me. Don't matter if you're girls or goats... you're still under arrest. I said get up..."

"I'd like to oblige but I believe my ankle's sprained and Cindy Lou's hurt."

"What's your name, smart mouth?"

"Ruth Ann."

"Well, Ruth Ann. Get on your feet…."

"Are you deaf? I just told you I can't walk."

Emmett had no recourse but to holster his weapon in order to hoist up Ruth Ann and boost her into the saddle, followed by the sniffling girl favoring her shoulder. The smallest one had turned into a pillar of salt, too frightened to move. He ended up having to carry that one and lead the horse. This was the last thing Deputy Ryker'd ever expected to come of this job... arresting teenage female horse thieves in the middle of the night. He'd never live it down if this got out. He might even have to get out of the peacekeeping business altogether and go back to being a hired gun, which paid better anyway.

 **Riding along with the posse,** Tabbie'd just about got over her hysteria... but the sight of her brother folding to the ground touched off another round. She shot straight off her horse and ran to him, cradling his head in her lap. Attempting to console a wailing Eddie and privately amazed at the amount of blood a single earlobe could produce, Max snapped at Tabbie. "Will you for heaven's sake stop that caterwauling? He just fainted, is all."

Having gone to fill a bucket at the well pump, Avery returned to upend cold water on the twins, causing Tabbie to shut up and Ben to wake up sputtering.

"Was that necessary?" Max hissed.

Avery shrugged. "He be fine. Orrie... hep me ged'im up so's I kin walk 'im t'the house. See can you carry that squallin' gal. Miss Max, Miss Tabbie... be 'bliged could you bring 'long dem hosses."

Taking hold of the nearest horse, Max addressed her bedraggled hiccupping cousin. "Pull yourself together and help me."

 **The two processions converged** at the front porch, where Slim and Mort were carrying in the second wounded alleged horsethief. The first one had already been deposited on the fainting couch so number two went to the big sofa at the back of the parlor, where Daisy'd already spread a thick blanket to spare the upholstery from ruin. She'd tried to chivvy Mike to bed without success, finally giving up after extracting a promise that he'd at least stay out of the way.

The kitchen table was spread with a bleached white cloth on which was arrayed a complement of doctoring implements and supplies in excess of what the average ranchwife normally kept on hand. Coming out West, Daisy'd assumed she'd have no further need of her wartime nursing skills... only to find them called into practice more frequently than she could ever have imagined—almost daily. She dearly loved her three 'boys'—four when Andy was home—but… mercy!... they were forever accruing damages.

Commonly known as Jonesy, Daisy's predecessor had maintained basic medical supplies in a wood tea chest plus a retired doctor's black bag passed on by his great friend and family physician, Wilfred Whatleigh. Daisy had supplemented that with an enameled white biscuit tin which she called her 'first aid kit'. The tea chest now served as sanitary storage for rolled bandages cut from boiled and bleached recycled bed linens—one of Daisy's first acts as domestic overseer.

Daisy was trying to determine which of her first two patients required the most urgent attention—the belly wound or the leg wound—when Avery brought in the next casualty and parked him at the parlor table. Even younger than the first two but alert, with a bloody arm.

"Mo comin', Miz Cooper," the blacksmith apologized. "Rest of 'em's gal young 'uns."

"Excuse me? Did you say... er... _girls?_ "

"Yes m'am... six of 'em."

 _Girl horse thieves?_ Daisy was plain-out flustered. "Oh dear... I'm going to need assistance. Do you by any chance know anything about doctoring?"

"No m'am, sorry. Sure don't. Hosses, yeah... folkses, no."

 **Avery stepped aside to admit Orrie** carrying a hyperventilating girl with a tear-streaked face and blood-spattered shirt. Without comment, he sat her down next to the boy at the table before following his father back outside.

The next two young women entered under their own steam. The red-haired one took a quick look around. Immediately singling out the presumed matron of the house, Max introduced herself and her cousins by first name only. Obviously this was _not_ an opportune moment to elaborate on familial relationships or an explanation of their presence.

"Looks like you're gonna need some help, Miz…?"

"Cooper... Daisy Cooper..."

"I know a little bit about nursing, Miz Cooper."

 _Nursing? What experience could this girl horse thief possibly have?_

Seeing Daisy's disbelief, Max continued primly, "My father's a doctor and he's taught me a lot already. I plan on becoming one myself someday."

Daisy was astonished. _A young lady with her looks and... um... current occupation? Pursuing a career in medicine?_

"Tabbie and I weren't hurt. She can fetch and carry. Tell us what you need done."

"I... er... I suppose you could… uh… start by sterilizing instruments," Daisy said, realizing she wasn't in much of a position to be choosy. "Perhaps… ah… Tabbie could make us some tea? The canister's on the counter. Oh... and we'll need more boiling water."

"Yes m'am. Tabbie, stop sniveling. We're safe now and Miz Cooper needs our help."

In spite of the dire situation, Daisy had to stifle a chuckle. _Redheads certainly are a breed apart… and isn't she polite for an outlaw?_

 **Next in was the deputy,** carrying a girl with a shoulder wound. "Where you want this one, Miz Cooper?"

After a cursory investigation revealed a minor graze that had already started coagulating, Daisy directed him to seat her at the table as well. Emmett went out as Orrie and Avery returned, supporting an older girl with an injured foot.

"Broken or sprained?" Daisy inquired.

"Doan know, Miz Cooper. Can't put no weight on it," Avery said.

"Put her at the table with the others. Best pull off her boot and elevate that foot before it swells."

Emmett came back carrying yet another girl, her face buried against his chest and her fists knotting his vest. Daisy raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Last one. No blood I can see. Might be in shock."

 _What would he know about...? Oh... of course..._ In her new life away from the epicenter of civil conflict, Daisy tended to forget that so many of the men she encountered were survivors—with battle scars that weren't always visible.

"She needs to be kept quiet and warm. Wrap her in a blanket and put her in the back bedroom."

 **As the men headed for the door** it suddenly dawned on Daisy that she was about to left alone in the house with nine desperadoes. It was confounding enough that the gang included six girls disguised as boys.

"Wait! Wait!" she called after them. "What about all these... er... _prisoners?_ Shouldn't one of you be _guarding_ them? What if they try to escape?"

Motioning to the other two to go on, Avery turned back, catching on that in the commotion no one'd thought to inform the lady that 'all these' represented two _separate_ groups of teenagers.

"Miz Cooper, only _some_ of 'em's be outlaws an' it sho doan look like dey's in any shape t'run off or cause you no trouble. Rest of 'em's be de loot'nant's kinfolk come t'call."

"His _what?_ " Daisy's jaw dropped.

"Beggin' yo pardon, m'am... ain't got time t'splain right now. I find de loot'nant an' send 'im in." He gestured at Maxine. "Axe that 'un. In the meantime, yo might orter tend to dese folks?"

At the reminder of the room full of casualties, Daisy transitioned into triage mode—her primary mission to determine who needed immediate attention and who could wait.

The cousins hadn't immediately placed the individuals they knew as John and Mary Brown. Ben and Eddie both had their heads down on folded arms, preoccupied with their own miseries, and Max and Tabbie were busy around the corner. Summoned from the kitchen by Daisy, Max did a double take at the girl with the injured foot. A long, hard second look at the young man on the sofa confirmed that they were one and the same couple. Max knew she'd been recognized as well though the girl said nothing. Somehow they both intuited that publicizing that information now would only create more confusion. Returning to the kitchen, Max advised Tabbie but told her to keep it to herself for the time being.

"Why?"

"It's going to be hard enough explaining how we know these people if we're not part of their gang. And we have more important things to do right now."

 **Ordinarily, with a recently deceased** large animal, the hide would've been skinned, any usable portions butchered out and the remains winched onto the hay wagon for disposal in the bottomless quicksand pit. But there wasn't time and the wagon was already loaded with junk winnowed out from the barn. When the sun came up, the two dead horses would begin to bloat and stink and attract carrion birds. The most expedient resort was to drag them some distance from the house.

Slim and Orrie'd already stripped the tack off the first horse and were preparing to remove it when Avery came up to Slim.

"I do dat, Loot'nant. Miz Cooper need you inside."

"Right now?" Slim glanced up at the thickening cloud cover portending rain. A few hundred yards away, Mort and Emmett were dealing with the other carcass, also by lantern light.

"She in dere 'lone wid all dem hurt young 'uns. Now'd be good."

"You seen Jess? Sure could use his help."

 **After a hurried inspection** to establish priority, Daisy's next step was to stabilize the injured until she could get around to properly treating each in turn. As none of the parlor table incumbents were in imminent danger, she assigned Max to sponging off dirt and blood and applying temporary bandages. Tabbie was detailed to pack ice around the injured ankle with the last of what remained in the icebox. Mike was tasked with keeping the shocky girl company so she wouldn't panic at finding herself alone in a strange room.

With first aid tasks delegated, Daisy turned her attention to the two serious wounds. The native boy on the fainting couch was now conscious but incommunicado, turning away his face in humiliation as Daisy cut away his pants leg to examine his thigh. It looked to be a soft tissue injury with no bone involvement—something she _could_ handle if necessary. The bleeding had slowed down enough to be staunched with a compress.

Lastly, she went to the young man on the sofa—the one Slim'd shot although she didn't know that. He, too, was awake but unmoving, eyes clouded with pain and the effort of trying to remain silent. Scissoring away enough material to expose the entry wound, she gave silent thanks that it was in his right hip, not in the abdominal cavity as she'd first thought. She judged the bullet was most likely either lodged against the iliac crest or had fractured it—either way, a wound best left to a surgeon's expertise. All she could do for the moment was put a compress on it and advise him to remain still. He seemed to comprehend although he wouldn't answer when she asked his name.

Daisy didn't fail to notice that the girl with the elevated foot kept craning her neck to watch the young man on the sofa behind her… evidently he meant something to her as the fear in her eyes was patently obvious. Or was it something other than fear?

 **Avery's astounding revelation** had completely slipped Daisy's mind by the time Slim came in a few minutes later. She drew him aside to speak in a doleful undertone.

"Most of the injuries are superficial but two of those boys are very badly hurt. We need a doctor."

Though sympathetic to Daisy's distress, Slim shook his head. "In the time it would take for a rider to get to town and bring someone back we could already have 'em there in the spring wagon. And it'll be daylight in a few more hours."

"I doubt they'd survive the journey... well, the one, anyway."

"Just do the best you can, Daisy. I can send someone over to Bartlett's and have Miz Marilyn here within the hour. Can you hold out that long?"

"I do so hate to disturb the family in the middle of the night, but... yes, please… do that."

Slim put his hands on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "Neighbors looking out for one another in emergencies is what we do, Daisy. It's how we survive."

"Tell her we need everything she can spare… bandages, carbolic, laudanum…"

"I'll send Jess..." Slim looked around. "Where is he, by the way?"

"Wasn't he outside with you?"

"No... last I saw he was still on the roof. He must've come down while I was outside."

"We would've seen him."

Mike piped up. "I can go up the ladder real quick an' tell 'im to come on down."

Slim hesitated. The roof was forbidden territory—which the child well knew—but these were extraordinary circumstances.

"Okay... but stay away from the ledge."

 **Mike scampered up** the ladder and through the hatch before Daisy could voice an objection. In minutes he was back down with wide anxious eyes and the news that Jess was nowhere in sight. Daisy noted he was concealing his hands behind his back. There were red smears on his trousers and on the rungs of the ladder.

"Michael... show me your hands."

Reluctantly the boy held up both fists, tightly clenched.

"Open, please..."

Both palms were streaked with sticky crimson residue although no cuts or scrapes were in evidence, which meant he had to've put his hands _somewhere_ he shouldn't have… like on the ledge.

"Thank you, Mike. Go wash your hands." Daisy instructed quietly with a troubled glance at Slim.

"No... wait..." Slim countermanded. "Let's you and me go back up, Tiger."

"Am I gonna get a whippin'?" Mike asked in a small voice, his lower lip quivering.

"No, Mike. You're not in trouble... but I need you to show me exactly what you touched... and where."

When they descended a few minutes later, Daisy could tell Slim was struggling to remain calm. Giving a fatherly pat on the head to the boy, he released him to go wash up.

"I think I know where Jess is, Daisy. Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Don't forget about Miz Bartlett…"

"I haven't. Andy can go instead."


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19:_ **THE MISERY MAGNET**

 **In the shadowed void** behind the washhouse, Jess lay flat on his back in the newly-turned earth of the future garden—conscious, but too stunned to move and laboring in the effort to draw breath into lungs depleted by the fall. Though the fear of suffocation quickly subsided, his heart was still pounding. A tingling sensation creeping up his extremities resolved into sharp pains in his side and left shoulder. His head swirled with disconnected thoughts.

 _What happened?_

The last thing he remembered was being on the roof… and a gunshot? Had he been hit? His right hand automatically went to the pain in his side, finding wet warmth there. That answered one question. What else was damaged? Cautiously he moved each leg... enough to determine neither were broken, and he was able to turn his head from side to side. So far, so good. And then he attempted to sit up… which touched off a firestorm of agony in his left shoulder. His left arm was numb and useless. A further attempt to push himself up using his right arm threatened to engulf him in dizziness. Flopping back down jarred his aching head, making matters worse.

Having been down this road a few times before, immobilized and unable to help himself, Jess knew his best option was inaction… lying still and trusting rescue would arrive sooner rather than later. He tried to shout but all he could manage was a whispered croak.A new fear was trying to take hold… the clouds above had closed ranks and—surrounded by blackness—he couldn't tell for certain exactly where he was. How would anyone be able to find him if he couldn't be seen or heard? How much time had passed?

 _How long before anyone notices I'm missin'?_

He thought he heard someone calling from above… and then nothing except wind in the trees. He was really hurting all over now, even without moving, and had a throbbing headache. Realized his thoughts were beginning to wander again. Not good. Distracted by a raindrop on his face. Great.

 _Stay awake. Don't close your eyes. Don't panic._

 **Minutes that seemed like hours** ticked by. Then came a light bobbing out of the darkness, and a welcome voice calling his name. He tried to answer but nothing came out. Forgetting he couldn't... or shouldn't... Jess tried again to sit up. The last words he heard before blacking out were 'Jess? You back here?'

 _Dim light penetrating his closed eyelids. Fingers at his carotid artery, searching for a pulse. Words echoing in his ears, bouncing around inside his head. A palm patting at his face..._

"Jess... c'mon. Wake up... talk to me."

Jess pried open his eyelids to find Slim's worried face directly above, thrown into sharp relief by lantern light.

"Take it away..." Jess said— _thought_ he was saying, turning his head away. The light was hurting his eyes, blurring his vision.

"What? I can't understand you."

"Take away..."

"Take what away?"

"Light. Away." Jess raised a hand for emphasis. Even that small movement was a mistake.

 _Who hollered? Oh wait... it was me..._

"C'mon… let's get you up and into the house…"

"No… don't…" The protest was lost somewhere between thought and speech.

Even though the hands trying to lift Jess were gentle, the sudden burst of pain hurtled him into oblivion. When he swam back up to the light, the lantern was on the ground nearby and Slim wasn't there.

 **Slim could've kicked himself** for being so negligent. _Of course_ he should've first checked for broken bones before trying to move someone injured in a fall. Not that such knowledge would've altered the problem much. He still had to get Jess into the house with as little jostling as possible and for that he needed help… and something that could be employed as a stretcher.

"Hang in there, pard… I'll be right back," Slim mouthed before sprinting off to round up assistance.

Earlier he'd detoured by the corral, where Andy was dealing with the collected unridden horses, to send his brother on the mission to bring back Missus Bartlett. Mort and Emmett were already too far up the road dragging one carcass so that left Avery and Orrie, about to remove the other one.

As Slim explained the situation, Orrie cut in. "There's a camp cot in the barn. I saw it when I was looking for rope… it's stacked against the wall in a corner."

Slim slapped him on the shoulder. _Why didn't I think of that?_

"Perfect! Let's go… the horse can wait."

 **Daisy'd just opened the door** to introduce fresh air into the stifling parlor when the three porters rounded the corner with their makeshift stretcher. Identifying their burden as they mounted the porch step, she blanched, hands flying to her mouth as she backed in.

"Oh no! Not again!"

Slim didn't bother with politeness. "Clear everyone away from the table..."

Ben staggered to his feet, hauling Eddie with him. Max propelled him and the other girl they didn't know out of the way. Not waiting for the remaining non-ambulatory person to be removed, Slim paused to study on a new problem: How to transfer Jess from the cot to the table.

Max solved it for him. "You two…" She pointed to Orrie and Avery. "Hold the stretcher even with the table top. Tabbie, Miz Cooper… you stand on that side and lift him as much as you can." The finger crooked at Slim. "You're with me. Lean over as far as you can. On the count of three we all lift and slide him over. Okay? One… two… THREE!"

In one smooth move they had the unconscious man laid out on the parlor table… but Max wasn't done issuing orders. Slim was shocked to find everyone complying without question—including himself and Daisy.

"Gentlemen… you did a swell job but now you're just in the way. Miz Cooper needs room to work. Ben… go park Eddie and that other girl somewhere. Tabbie… go boil some more water."

Who the heck was this copper-topped virago, incongruously clad in one of Daisy's white aprons over men's trousers and workboots? A kerchief intended to keep her hair in check hadn't prevented it from springing loose from its plait and cascading down her back.

 **Slim opened his mouth** to argue when he realized Jess was coming around, wincing at the light shining directly into his eyes from the overhead oil lamp and turning away his face. The way he'd been positioned on the table, his head was a bare two feet from the girl seated at the corner. His eyelids fluttered open and he grinned weakly.

"Well... hi there, darlin'! Where'd you come from?"

Force of habit coupled with addled thinking compelled him to extend a palm toward the girl's cheek. Startled into intercepting the intimate gesture, she found her own hand firmly engaged in his. Even more disconcerting were those mesmerizing blue eyes holding her in thrall. Daisy and Slim exchanged startled glances as they peeled away the blood-stained shirt.

"On second thought," Slim said, "leave her right there."

Daisy, too, was quick to recognize an advantage, Emmett having earlier told her the girl's name. "Ruth Ann, dear... if you could just continue holding his hand and getting him to lie still, that would be such an enormous help. Jess, you concentrate on Ruth Ann. Don't look at me."

Having settled his cousin and the unknown girl in the rockers by the fireplace, Ben had returned to stand by Max's elbow. "Isn't that the same…?"

"Yes, she is."

"Her name's not Mary?"

"Apparently not."

"Then I guess John isn't… OW!"

Max removed her boot heel from her cousin's toe and pushed him toward a castered chair by a small cubbyhole desk. "Do be still, Benjie, and stay out of the way." With her back to the others clustered at the table, she whispered, "Probably not a good time to mention we know these people, get it?"

"Got it."

"Good. We'll discuss it later."

 **The wound wasn't nearly as severe** as it seemed at first glance… in fact, bordering on the miraculous. The projectile's upward trajectory had gouged a channel through the chunk of abdominal muscle overlying the ninth and tenth ribs, impacting neither one and damaging no internal organs. Once disinfected and closed, it was unlikely to cause Jess any permanent difficulty. But before she could get started, something else caught Daisy's attention. Max spotted it at the same time.

"Looks like a dislocated shoulder, Miz Cooper."

"I believe you're right. Slim… I'm going to need your help… I've never dealt with this before."

"Don't look at me! Neither have I."

"I've _watched_ it being done, though," Daisy continued, looking doubtful. "I believe I can talk you through it…"

Slim gulped. "You mean… _right now?_ "

 **Following Daisy's instructions,** Slim positioned Jess' left arm parallel to his torso and bent his elbow at a ninety degree angle. Keeping his upper arm firmly positioned, he grasped Jess' wrist and slowly rotated the arm outward until the joint visibly slipped back into place with an audible click. Jess yelped and passed out. Daisy fainted and would've fallen if Max hadn't caught her and eased her into a chair. Slim was in a quandary—stay with Jess or attend to Daisy. Before he could decide, Max stepped to the kitchen to retrieve the ammonia ampules she'd noticed earlier in the medical kit. Smelling salts and a mug of hot tea brought Daisy around quickly but did nothing to alleviate her obvious exhaustion.

"Daisy... go to bed," Slim ordered, knowing he'd meet up with resistance. "We can hold the fort until Marilyn gets here."

"Don't be absurd. Jess needs me." She tried to stand on wobbly legs and fell back into the chair with a woof.

The redhead, whose name Slim now knew was Maxine, caught Slim's eye with a frown and a tiny negative headshake. What she'd seen that Slim hadn't were the arthritic tremors in the elderly woman's hands. Threading a needle would be nigh impossible and plying it difficult and clumsy. Offering to serve as Daisy's 'hands' was both practical and face-saving.

"Miz Cooper, how about if you rest for just a few minutes while I irrigate and disinfect the wound?"

"I don't know…"

"There's no bullet to extract so it should be pretty straightforward. I can do simple suturing. You can sit right next to me and oversee to make sure I'm doing it correctly."

To Slim's astonishment, Daisy acceded. "But just for a little while…"

"Of course. Mister Sherman… would you mind standing by… in case you're needed?"

Max was counting on the laudanum she'd slipped into the older woman's tea to do its work in the very near future. Within minutes Daisy's head drooped lower and lower as she drifted away. Slim scooped her up and carried her off to her bedroom.

 **Jess was slowly coming around** again, woozily still holding fast to the seated girl's hand. Slim hovered anxiously at Max's elbow. Should he allow her to continue without supervision? Granted, the young woman seemed to know what she was doing.

"How can I help?"

"You can hold him steady. The less he moves, the quicker I can get this done."

With Slim watching her like a hawk, Max strove to maintain an air of professional competence as she worked. She wasn't about to admit she'd never stitched up a _human_ although she'd had lots of practice on animals, Daddy being a veterinarian.

 _Really, there's not much difference except this skin isn't hairy or furry and doesn't require shaving first. Also, I don't have to worry about being bitten, scratched, gored or kicked in the process… or urinated or defecated on. I hope that other lady—whoever she is—gets here pretty soon._

A headache was beginning to form at the base of Slim's skull as he surveyed his domain—parlor-turned-emergency-room—and experienced a jolt of _déjà vu._

 _What is it about this house... this room... that attracts the victims of misadventure and mayhem? Every time I turn around someone's leaking blood on the floorboards. Why can't we be like normal people?_

Ben Schirrman had mostly regained his equanimity and got past the embarrassment of having fainted over a relatively minor injury. His left arm and shoulder were throbbing and he certainly wasn't looking forward to having the buckshot tweezed out later, whenever anybody could get around to him. In the meantime, there was nothing wrong with his writing hand and no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention. The desk was conveniently equipped with sheets of ruled foolscap and a supply of sharpened pencils in a chipped china mug with a broken handle...

 _ **Ben's Journal, Thursday, July 23:**_ _3:00am, Sherman ranch. Jotting down notes to transcribe into journal later._

 _Good thing there's plenty of witnesses because nobody back home would ever believe this story. First of all, the uncles don't know who we are yet as we got lost on the way and everything happened so fast we haven't had a chance to explain. If we'd got here earlier we would've been IN the house instead of ON the road when the shooting started._

 _The rustlers Missus Jackson warned us about arrived the same time we did, from the other direction. They started shooting at us first. Then we shot back. Then Mister Harper started shooting at both of us from the roof of the house. Uncle Slim and Uncle Andy were shooting from inside the house at other rustlers near barn. I'm guessing they were expecting a raid tonight and were sitting up waiting for it. They must've thought we were part of the gang. Clouds came up and covered the moon so no one could see what or who they were shooting at. Overheard Uncle Slim telling Missus Cooper that it was a miracle no one got killed except for two horses._

 _Then a posse rode up about the time the gunfight was over with (sheriff, deputy, Mister Jackson, Orrie). Mostly we're all in the house now, where it's a cross between a hospital and a train station with people coming and going. Missus Cooper was tending to injuries with Max's help but now she's having a lie-down and Max is in charge. (God help us.) I've never seen people shot before, or so much blood! Wonder if this sort of situation is routine out here?_

 _Tally at present: Five rustlers captured, two badly wounded (one Indian boy, one white boy). The other three are white GIRLS! (One with a sprained or broken ankle, one shot in the shoulder and one in shock according to the deputy sheriff.)_

 _Mister Harper's also been shot but not too bad. Before he passed out when Uncle Slim fixed his dislocated shoulder, he was holding hands with the girl rustler with a bad ankle. Max is sewing him up. I'm guessing she hasn't exactly let on that whatever doctoring she's learned from Uncle Bruce is animals, not people. Uncle Slim has a small head wound. Missus Cooper, Uncle Andy and Mike (adopted cousin?) were not hurt in the fight._

 _Got hit in the shoulder and arm with birdshot (I think). Stings like a hundred wasps. Missus Cooper said the pellets will have to be picked out later with tweezers when she has time. Eddie caught some in an earlobe but okay otherwise, except for being scared. Max and Tab were not hurt, just scared._

 _The sheriff and the deputy are outside with the Jacksons, doing something with all the horses, including the dead ones. Uncle Andy was sent to fetch some lady from the next ranch to help out._

 _Wondered at first where everyone was going to sleep but I guess that's not a problem as it doesn't look like anyone's going to get any. It'll be dawn soon and all the rustlers'll be packed off to jail. Max doesn't want to mention just yet that two of the rustlers were in town a couple of days ago, passing themselves off as a married couple—John and Mary. The Jacksons must not've said anything either. Turns out Mary's real name is Ruth Ann and we don't know John's yet._

 _Which leaves us... the unexpected relatives. Missus Jackson was right. This was a bad idea. Max says we need to let the excitement die down before we properly introduce ourselves._

 _Noise and voices outside... must be the neighbor arriving. Guess I'll stop here for a while and see what else is happening._


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20—_ **SORTING SHEEP FROM GOATS**

 **For the past forty-five minutes** Ruth Ann'd been contemplating her predicament from her front-row seat at this incredible fiasco, which was partially of her own making. She'd probably hang right alongside Rusty and Coyote, provided they lived long enough. Or be remanded to prison with a _very_ long sentence. And what would happen to her younger sisters? The worst scenario was that they'd be returned to the abusive home from which they'd fled.

Had Chana and the two other boys on Rusty's team escaped? And what of Elliott's foursome... had their raid on the neighboring ranch—the Bartlett place—succeeded? She'd find out soon enough, when the person sent there to fetch help returned.

Ruth Ann'd been sure enough startled to meet up with those Easterners from the boarding house. She couldn't fathom why they would've been on the road in the middle of the night in the first place… or how her group and theirs had ended up in a three-way shooting confrontation… or, most of all, why the people who knew them as John and Mary Brown hadn't said one word about it.

Whatever dreams Ruth Ann'd harbored for herself and Rusty—and the others—were in ruins. As she was being seated at the table, their eyes had met only for a second—enough for him to signal she wasn't to speak of their association. Probably just as well she had her back to him now and he couldn't see her face. It wouldn't take him long to figure out what she and the other girls had been up to, charging in like that and making all that noise. He'd never forgive her. If he lived.

 _And he still doesn't know about our little problem._

But that was in the future. Ruth Ann had plenty enough regrets in the here and now... and other immediate concerns—such as her ankle problem and this strange wounded man lying on the table in front of her. When that old lady'd been bent over him, trying to ascertain his injuries, her probing fingers had induced spasms that rippled through to the clenched hand gripping Ruth Ann's.

"Sorry..." he'd whispered, realizing he'd hurt her and trying to pull away.

"It's okay... be still," she'd whispered back, not sure why she couldn't let the man have his hand back. A long time ago when a traveling carnival had come to town, she'd watched a flute player charm a snake out of its basket. That's what she felt like right now... hypnotized like that snake and unable to look away.

Ruth Ann'd continued holding the man's limp hand after he'd passed out when the tall yellow-haired man'd manipulated his dislocated shoulder. She thought she was going to throw up when that joint popped into place—or pee her drawers. The need had been building for some time and was bordering on urgent. She was about to communicate this to the red-haired girl—Max?—who'd taken the old woman's place when the front door opened to admit a figure in galoshes and a yellow rain slicker.

 **Marilyn Bartlett was no stranger** to the Shermans' ongoing tribulations. This wasn't the first time she'd been called out to deal with an emergency. As it happened, the rancher's wife'd still been up and dressed when Andy'd arrived. They, too, had been prepared for a possible attack. The would-be raiders'd met with a barrage of gunfire in which one was killed outright and another mortally wounded, succumbing within the hour. Two others escaped. No injuries had accrued to any of the Bartletts themselves or their hired hands, so—with her husband's assurances that all was under control—they'd quickly hitched up a team while she gathered her supplies. This information had already been passed to Andy during the ride. It was decided to keep that to themselves for the moment.

Divested of her wet outerwear, Marilyn made straight for Slim's post for an update on the status quo: an utterly fatigued Daisy having been packed off to bed; the sheriff, his deputy and the Jacksons holed up in the barn out of the rain; and the house packed to the rafters with teenage horse thieves, all but three of them visibly injured.

Marilyn rolled her eyes. "This could only happen to you, Slim Sherman! Who needs a traveling circus and side show with you as a neighbor?" Without waiting for an introduction, she peered over the red-headed girl's shoulder as the latter clipped excess catgut from the last suture.

"Good job there."

"Thanks." The girl was equally terse.

The patient swiveled his head around. "That you, Miz B? Everything okay at your place?"

"Absolutely fine, Jess," Marilyn lied, stroking his cheek. "And you'll be, too."

 **With Jess bandaged and escorted** to one of the fireplace rockers, Marilyn made a quick circuit of the room to determine who next needed attention. The discomfited birdshot victims were in no immediate danger. Slim then drew her into the hot and steamy kitchen, where Tabbie had pots boiling on every eye of the stove and Max was preparing to resterilize instruments.

Worry lines furrowed Slim's forehead. "I think Jess might've hit his head when he fell off the roof. He wasn't making any sense when I found him. He's been in and out of consciousness since then, and complaining about the light hurting his eyes."

"What's the longest he's been under at any one time?"

"Three, four minutes…?"

Max cut in. "Miz Cooper didn't find any contusions or lacerations to the scalp."

"I wouldn't be too concerned, then," Marilyn soothed. "And he seems lucid enough now. If he is concussed, there's nothing we can do about it except keep him quiet."

She turned to the red-haired girl. "I'm Marilyn, by the way. Who might you be?"

"Maxine. Max for short."

"Well, Max-for-short… you game to move on to the next casualty? It's going to be a lot gorier than Jess. If you don't have the stomach for it, better tell me now."

"I can handle it."

"Good. Is there any more ice? Jess needs an ice pack on that shoulder."

"No, m'am… we used it all on Ruth Ann's ankle."

Slim was fidgeting. "She's not really a nurse, Marilyn… maybe I'd better…"

Marilyn had the bit in her teeth. "The men in the barn'll be wanting coffee… you can take that out to them on your way to the ice house."

"But I…"

"But first, go check on Daisy… see if she's all right or needs anything."

"I really think I…"

"You still here? Get a move on!"

Slim sighed. "Whatever you say, Marilyn."

The next few minutes were a maelstrom of motion as Marilyn made Tabbie's acquaintance, dispensing instructions on loading a basket with cups, spoons, sugar and cream in Mason jars. Just as Slim was stealthily exiting Daisy's bedroom, his brother came in from putting up the horses. Before Andy could shuck off his slicker, Slim promptly delegated the coffee delivery and ice-fetching tasks to him and reported back to Ward Matron Bartlett.

She thrust a mug of tea at him with orders to make sure Jess slugged down every drop.

"If there's laudanum in it he won't accept it," Slim warned.

"So don't tell him," Marilyn shrugged. "There's enough honey and whiskey in there he won't notice."

 **Marilyn and Max were scrubbing** with carbolicized soap and hot water when Andy returned in time to help Slim move the next patient to the table. No less observant than Daisy, the rancher's wife noted the change that came over the face of the girl with the injured foot when the semiconscious young man was lifted off the sofa and laid out in front of her. It'd gone dead white and she looked like she was about to faint.

"What's your name, sweetie?"

"Ruth Ann." It came out as a whisper.

"This your young man?"

"Yes, m'am."

"Thought so. And what's his name?"

"Rusty."

"Well, Ruth Ann, we'll do what we can, but it's going to be messy. Not something you should be seeing in your condition."

"I'd rather stay with him," Ruth Ann objected.

"What condition?" Slim and Andy chimed simultaneously.

"What do you think?" Marilyn snapped. "Find some other place for her, Slim... but keep that foot up."

At the desperate look on the girl's face, Maxine realized she was approaching dire straits herself. She intervened to whisper in Marilyn's ear.

"Good Lord! You mean to tell me _none_ of you have been to the accommodation?" Marilyn scolded, turning on Slim. "Don't you men ever _think?_ Why wasn't this taken care of earlier?"

Pink with embarrassment, Slim carried Ruth Ann to the washroom. The other girls followed like ducklings, grateful for the respite and for not having to trudge through darkness and rain to get there.

Slim deposited his burden in the chair Andy had dragged in. "There's one more girl back in my room. Daisy sent Mike in there to keep her company but they're both probably asleep."

"Well… go get her. Don't just stand there."

Slim returned a few minutes later carrying the last girl and handed her in.

"Keep your eyes on our patients while we're in here. You can be getting that young man's clothes off in the meantime." With that, Marilyn closed said door in his face.

Trooping back to the parlor, Andy asked his brother if all mothers were that militant about bodily functions.

Slim chuckled. "I guess if you have six kids like she does you have to be organized about these things. Ma wasn't that bad, but there was only the two of us. Still, when you were little it seemed like every hour on the hour she made me tote you to the outhouse whether or not you needed to go."

"Aw, Slim!"

"She claimed it saved on laundry."

 **With everyone's personal needs met,** Command Sergeant Major Bartlett orchestrated a reshuffling of bodies before commencing preparations for the next patient.

"Need these young ladies out of the way, Slim," she barked, indicating Cindy Lou and Eddie with Ellie May asleep on her feet between them. "So I'm commandeering the rest of your bedroom. Put Ruth Ann in the rocker opposite Jess. Keep her foot up. You… Tabbie…" She pointed at the curly-headed blonde nervously twisting her hands in her shirttails. "Keep the hot water coming and start another pot of coffee. Use the big pot."

"Yes, m'am."

Marilyn peered into the tea chest. "We're gonna need a lot more bandages. Slim… where does Daisy keep clean bed linens?"

Slim threw up his hands. "Don't have a clue."

Andy spoke up. "Er… I know."

"Choose two that look the most worn out. Start cutting up one into strips about four inches wide and the other into twenty-four inch squares, roughly. Change into clean clothes first, and wash your hands thoroughly… we don't need cross-contamination."

Younger brother looked to older one in supplication. Slim pooched out his lips and looked ceilingward. "Better do as she says."

Following orders, Andy retreated to his and Mike's bedroom to change while Slim herded the girls into his and Jess' bedroom.

 **A startled Slim was the next conscript** as Marilyn rummaged through her carryall of medical supplies, extracting a bottle of ether. Uncapping it and applying a goodly amount to a gauze pad, she handed it to him.

"I'll need you to administer anesthesia."

"But I don't know... I've never..."

"Easy peasy. Stand over there by his head and I'll tell you what to do as we go along."

"I'm sure you will," Slim grumbled, with a flash of sympathy for Garland Bartlett. If Marilyn had been president of the Confederacy, it was just possible the South might have won.

 **Marilyn was gratified** to see that the red-haired girl didn't turn a hair when ordered to cut away the remnants of the patient's trousers, calmly draping a modesty towel over the pertinent parts.

 _Good head on her shoulders, this one._

As they got to work, Marilyn sought more information.

"Might one inquire why a young woman with your skills has elected a life of crime? Hand me a sponge."

"Pardon me?"

"Rustling isn't a usual occupation for a young woman."

Max rolled her eyes. "We're _not_ rustlers."

"We?"

"My cousins and myself—Tabbie and her brother Ben... he's the one at the desk over there. And Edwina... Eddie... she's in the bedroom with the others now. We're the Shermans' nephew and nieces... they just don't know it yet."

"Whaaat?" Slim choked, nearly dropping the ether-soaked pad. Over by the kitchen table, Andy dropped his scissors.

"Run that by me again?" Marilyn blinked in confusion. "I believe I misheard you. Need some gauze here. Andy… put those scissors back in boiling water and rewash your hands."

Max continued. "Matthew... Slim, rather... and Andy are our uncles. We only just found out a few weeks ago and decided to make a surprise visit. Long story. There's been no time to explain... or for anyone to listen. Bad timing, as it's turned out."

"No kidding! But it'll have to keep til we're done. We have to concentrate on Rusty here. Lord, what a mess! Slim, pay attention to what you're doing."

Slim and Andy were both speechless and their eyes kept flickering from Max to Ben to Tabbie in utter disbelief.

 **An hour of delicate probing** yielded many bone shards but Marilyn was unable to extract the firmly-wedged bullet. Once the wound was thoroughly flushed with carbolic solution, she decided against suturing.

"If you leave it open, he'll bleed out before we reach town," Slim said.

"And he'll die for sure if you try to take him there. That's not an option. You have to get a doctor out here."

"Marilyn... be reasonable. I can't keep all these kids here. We simply don't have the room."

"I didn't say you had to. The others can probably endure the trip but this one has to stay... at least for a few days. He may not last that long anyway."

Rusty hadn't regained consciousness even after the ether was withdrawn. His breathing was shallow and his pulse weak, but he was still alive.

"Let's move him back to the sofa before he wakes up."

"If he wakes up," Slim said gloomily.

 **Over in her rocker,** Ruth Ann was softly sobbing. Jess had dozed off in the facing rocker, thus missing Max's revelation. Attempting to resist Marilyn's and Max's determination that he be next up on the table, Coyote soon succumbed to the press-ganged anesthesiologist's gauze pad of liquid dreams. They had him stitched up and back on the fainting couch while he was still under. One by one the lesser injuries were seen to. Andy'd gone out to the barn to join the other four men, who were alternately napping and picking buckshot out of unhappy horses. And outside, the rain had ceased falling as dawn crept in.


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21—_ **TRUE CONFESSIONS**

 **Morning broke in misty pastel hues** as the rising sun began penetrating the remaining cloud cover. Condensation dripped from the eaves and fogged the windows. Slim, Marilyn and Sheriff Corey stood on the front porch, gauging road conditions. The consensus was that if the morning eastbound stage showed up on time, or close to time, then the road between the ranch and town was negotiable by wagon.

"How's it possible to be so tired and so awake at the same time?" Slim remarked, swallowing the dregs of his latest cup of coffee. "I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin at the next loud noise."

"You and me both," Mort sympathized. "If a gun was to go off right now I'd probably wet my britches and shoot everyone in sight before I knew what I was doing. Although, me and the boys… we did manage to catch us a few winks out in the barn."

"It's the coffee," Marilyn said. "Or rather, the caffeine in it. Maybe you ought to lay off the joe for a while, Slim… get a nap while you can. You look like you've been trampled in a stampede."

 **Slim didn't need to consult a mirror** to agree the woman wasn't too far off with her description. His eyeballs felt like they could pop right out of his skull from the pressure of the headache behind them. Neck, shoulders, back… everything ached.

"Seriously… you need to rest," she continued. "You're not invincible… and you're not some young pup, either."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence… but I can't… the stage… all these kids…"

"The stage won't get here for another four hours, earliest… and you can't count on it being on time. Go out to the barn, where it's quiet," Marilyn urged. "I'll stay until Daisy can take over."

"She's got a point, Slim," the sheriff said. "Emmett and I need to get on back to town but I'm sure the Jacksons won't mind covering for you."

"You'll need two rigs to haul off all those prisoners… you're welcome to…"

Marilyn drew herself up. "And where, exactly, do you propose they should be hauled off _to_? The jail isn't equipped to house three young females… and one of them in a delicate condition."

Mort took a step back, eyes wide. "You mean… _expecting,_ like… a baby?"

"No… kittens," Marilyn said scornfully.

"Oh… uh… well, Slim…" the sheriff stuttered. "That _does_ present a problem. Might have to leave 'em here until I can make some other arrangements."

"I'm not equipped to house 'em, either," Slim retorted. "What do you expect _me_ to do with 'em… or those boys?"

"One can't be moved," Marilyn reiterated. "Not yet… not unless you intend to take him straight to the undertaker."

Slim groaned in frustration.

 **Sheriff Corey leaned his head back** against the wall and closed his eyes, mentally recusing himself from this battle of wills. He liked Marilyn Bartlett well enough—admired her, even. She was the consummate pioneer helpmeet… prepared to deal with all eventualities without going to pieces. In fact, very much like his own beloved late wife Edith and Slim's late mother Mary Grace—all cut from the same bolt of cloth. _They_ always _get their way in the end… you'd think Slim would've figured that out by now._

"You got any better ideas?" Slim challenged.

Marilyn pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Actually… I do. I can take them home with me. Billy Sol and Emmy and the babies just got their own place so we have spare rooms at the moment." The Bartlett domicile was a rabbit warren of extensions tacked on as needs arose.

"You serious? All of 'em?" Slim looked askance.

"No. Just the girls… they're sisters, you know. The eldest can't walk and the other two won't leave her."

"Gar won't go for it."

"You let me worry about my husband."

"What about the boys? I'm not running a damned rest home here."

"You've got a bunkhouse… use it. Put a lock on the door."

"Fine… but who's gonna stand guard?"

"Andy can. Or Jess," Marilyn insisted.

"Jess won't be doing anything for a while," Slim countered.

"He can still handle a gun from a chair, can't he?"

"I suppose so."

"It'll just be for a few days… a week at most, until they're fit to be taken to town."

Mort cut in. "I'd go along with that… and see to it you're both reimbursed for their keep and any doctorin' needed."

"Well… maybe…" Slim was still shaking his head with doubt.

"Good. That's settled, then," Marilyn stated.

 **The sheriff cleared his throat.** "Not entirely, I'm afraid. There's still the matter of those _other_ four kids."

Slim stared back. "The ones claiming to be relatives, you mean? They have to go back, too. Sooner the better."

"Have you talked to them yet, Slim?" This from Marilyn.

"No. Don't see any need to. Don't know 'em. We don't have any nieces or nephews and that's that."

"You should at least hear them out," Marilyn insisted, with Mort's head nodding in agreement. "There's got to be an explanation."

Slim glared at both of them, then shrugged. "All right… I'll listen… but they're going back with you."

"Fair enough," Mort said. "I've got to do something about 'em, anyway… now that I've received an official complaint."

"What complaint? What're you talking about?"

"Wire came in from Pennsylvania, police inquiring about underage runaways… place called Kurts Town or something like that. Didn't you tell me once your Pa hailed from thereabouts? Pinkertons're on the case, too. One of 'em's in town right now lookin' for 'em."

"I don't need this," Slim moaned.

"Mort… take this man out to the barn and out of my way," Marilyn ordered. "I'm going inside to start breakfast. I'll call you when it's ready."

 **Daisy fought back a panic attack** as she crossed the parlor on her way to the washroom, pausing to regard Jess and Ben conked out in the rockers, snoring with heads on chests. The bodies on the couch and sofa must still be among the living or they would've been removed. It hadn't been just a bad dream after all. In the kitchen she found her neighbor industriously rolling out a batch of biscuit dough while that red-haired girl sliced bacon and ham. Frying pans were heating on the stove and two coffeepots gurgled on back burners.

"My goodness… you're still here, Marilyn?"

"Good morning to you, too, Daisy. Did you get enough rest?"

"I did, thank you. Fit as a fiddle. I can take over now. You should be home with your own family."

"I will… as soon as we get this crowd tidied up and fed."

"Where are all the… other… everyone else?"

"The girls are in Slim and Jess' bedroom—we put the camp cot in there. Andy and Mike in Mike's room. The other men slept in the barn. Slim went off just a little while ago…"

"What happened after I went to bed?"

"Sit down and have a cup of coffee first."

"No… I'd rather work while I listen."

"As you wish. You can punch out biscuits while I start the bacon."

"I'll be right back after I wash up."

 **The telling took some time.** Daisy's mouth fell open when Marilyn got to the part about Slim's and Andy's relatives.

"So it's true? Mister Jackson mentioned it but I assumed he was mistaken…"

"Slim hasn't accepted it yet," Marilyn admitted with an apologetic glance at Max.

Max spoke up with confidence. "I'm sure he will after he hears how this all came up."

"I suppose stranger things have happened," Daisy acknowledged. "I do know their father was quite a bit older than their mother, so it's possible he could've had a previous family."

"Our folks were shocked to find out there was a _second_ one," Max said matter-of-factly.

"I don't understand why they didn't write first, before sending you on such a long journey," Daisy put forth delicately. "Or why they sent you at all… surely an _adult_ representative…?"

Max grinned. "The thing is, Aunt Daisy… may I call you that? The thing is, they had nothing to do with our being here. There's a legal issue having to do with inheritance and property that they wanted to address first."

"Then why…?"

"We took matters into our own hands."

"You don't mean…?"

"It was Ben's idea. We blackmailed him into taking us along. It's been a jolly good adventure so far… except for being shot at. Could've done without that part."

"Your folks must be out of their heads with worry… not knowing where you are and if you're safe." Daisy was appalled.

"Oh… they know _now_. We wired home after a few days. There'll be hell to pay… but we found what we came for. That is, if we can convince Uncle Slim and Uncle Andy."

 **With food holding in the warming ovens,** Max went around to rouse everyone and organize visits to the washhouse. Breakfast was served in shifts—at the table for those who could walk unaided and on trays for those who couldn't. As always quick to rebound, Jess was alert though sore. Seated at the table, surrounded by adolescent faces, he voiced his bewilderment.

"Where'd all these young 'uns come from?" The only face that seemed familiar was the plain and rather stout brown-haired girl with her bound foot elevated on the ottoman.

"All shall be revealed… when breakfast is over," Marilyn assured him before stepping out on the porch to ring the triangle.

Aside from Slim who was sawing logs in the straw in an empty stall, the barn crew under Andy's direction had been busy with morning chores. They were more than ready for breakfast when summoned and the parlor table cleared for the next seating.

Slim's two-hour nap hadn't done much to improve his appearance or disposition. As soon as the men were done eating, he announced a meeting would be forthcoming.

"Not just yet," Daisy briskly contradicted. "The injured require attention first. Then we'll talk about what's to be done."

 **The stage finally arrived,** though running twenty minutes late. Mose reported the road passable, if mucky. It was decided that Emmett would ride on ahead, detouring by Bartlett's place.

"Pass the word… no talking to anyone about what happened here _or_ there," Mort advised. "The last thing we want is a lynch mob getting riled up."

"Yes, sir."

"And if anyone in town asks, I'm… uh… on a case for another jurisdiction."

"You mean if anyone like maybe a Pinkerton agent…" Emmett smirked.

Marilyn put in her own request. "Tell Garland I'll be along directly with three houseguests who don't need to know about the bodies in the coolhouse."

"Yes, m'am."

Avery would be the next one to leave, with the surviving livery mounts. No one would pay attention to a stable owner leading three generic haltered horses into town. For all anyone knew they were recent acquisitions. Their tack would later be discreetly returned in the Sherman wagon.

"Soon's you get there," Slim said, addressing Avery, "would you go by Young Doc's and ask him to come right away? Tell him… I don't know… tell him Daisy's ailing."

"What I should tell 'im she be ailin' wif, suh?"

"Make something up… use your own judgment," Slim said. Avery nodded his assent.

 **Slim led the parade out to the barn** —the only other venue in which to assemble as the parlor was otherwise engaged by rustlers under the watchful eye of Orrie. Mort and Marilyn had offered to remain in the house as well but Slim insisted they be included as, of necessity, they'd be involved in future events. With Daisy and Marilyn installed on a footlocker and everyone else standing or seated on the floor, Slim focused on Max and Ben.

"First of all, who are you people and why are you here?"

The cousins in turn looked to Maxine to carry the ball. Despite her flighty ways, the _summa cum laude_ graduate had also carried away top prizes in declamation.

"I'll try to be as succinct as possible. Whether or not you're aware, your father—Matthew Schirrman—was married before he met your mother. His first wife died in childbirth and he left his three children in the care of his spinster sister, Charlotte. For reasons too long to go into just yet, he left Kutztown and wasn't able to return. The children—your siblings and our parents—were told he'd died. They grew up believing that. Altogether there are fifteen of us grandchildren… we are your nieces and nephews."

"You have proof?" Slim interrupted impolitely.

"We do. Irrefutable. Not here, of course… it's all back in Pennsylvania. May I proceed?"

"Go on."

"Several weeks ago Charlotte—we called her Gramma Charlie—passed on. When our folks were cleaning out the attic, they found a trunk containing letters written to her by your father—our grandfather. Over a hundred, dated between 1825 and 1863. His marriage to your mother is mentioned, along with birth announcements—including yours and Andrew's. They detail the move west and all the places you've lived, right up to settling in Laramie and subsequent events… which is how we were able to locate you. We assume he must have died in 1863."

Max paused to gauge what effect her narrative was having. Poleaxed would be the mildest interpretation she could put on Slim's and Andy's expressions. The hushed atmosphere in the barn could've been cut with a knife.

"Surely your mother must've known all along. Did she never say anything to you?"

As Slim gave only a single negative nod, Max continued. "Any questions so far?"

"I don't understand…" Slim began, his voice faint and raspy. "Why didn't they… your people… try to get in touch with us right away?"

"Ah. Miz Bartlett asked that earlier. My guess is that our folks are worried about legal complications. Gramma's estate was divided equally among the three children… before anyone knew of your existence. I imagine you can see the problem."

"They can quit worrying. We don't want anything from them," Slim stated flatly.

"It was a considerable estate. Your shares could prove significant."

"No. Speaking for myself, I have no intention of pursuing that." He turned to his brother. "What about you?"

"Me?" Andy squawked. "No… I don't want to, either… although…"

"Although what?" Slim sounded almost angry. "We don't know these people. They owe us nothing and we sure don't owe them."

Andy looked uncertain. "They're family, Slim… brothers and sisters. I'd kinda like to get to know 'em. Wouldn't you?"

"One brother… Christopher, Ben's and Tabbie's father," Max cut in. "Two sisters… Theodora, my mother, and Louise, Eddie's mother. As to your second question, why are we here? Ben should take the floor on that one."

Max stepped back and Ben stood up. "First of all, I don't know why parents think they can hide things like this from children. Ours did… but I found out anyway and decided to do something about it. Coming here was my idea. I was planning to go on my own but the girls insisted on coming with."

"So what you're saying is… you four ran away from home?"

"That's about the size of it." Ben shrugged. "I take full responsibility for whatever trouble this's brought down on you. I'm really sorry."

The sheriff took over. "I have to inform you that the police are looking for you… and your family has engaged the Pinkerton Agency. I'm afraid you'll have to come back to town with me so we can get this mess straightened out."

"Yes, sir. We'll go quietly… won't we, Max?"

Max tossed her head. " _You_ can if you want to. Not me. We've traveled all this way to find our kin and I, for one, don't intend going _anywhere_ until we've got to know one another."

"I'm with her, Slim," Andy said loudly. "You're always talking about the importance of family. Now that we know we aren't the only ones, I want to find out more. I'd like to go to Pennsylvania and meet 'em."

"That's not gonna happen." The older brother flushed, his hands knotted into fists.

"You don't have the right to stop me. Like it or not, they're as much my kin as yours." Andy didn't need to raise his voice—the defiance on his face underscored his determination.

 **In the strained silence** that descended upon the group, Slim struggled to mask the defensive posture that automatically arose whenever he was confronted by a repugnant truth… especially when he wasn't in possession of all the facts. _Why is this so hard to accept? Why am I so angry with these kids? None of this is their fault… it's Pa's, for letting it happen… and Ma's, for conspiring to keep it a secret. I'm angry at_ them _, for having died without ever telling us about this whole other family. I'm angry with Andy, for having grown up and no longer needing me…_

Expectant faces were now trained on him, waiting for him to respond. The pressure was smothering.

"I need some time to think about this. Please excuse me." Slim abruptly turned and walked away out of the barn.

Daisy stood then, wringing her hands in her apron. "Someone should go after him…"

Andy shrugged. "Not me. I'm not his favorite brother at the moment."

"I'll go…" Jess said, detaching himself from the audience. _I know better'n anyone what he's feelin' right now…_

The group broke up then, with Andy and the cousins returning to the house while Daisy, Mort and Marilyn stayed behind.

 **Slim'd walked past the corral** to the pasture across the road. He was leaning against the fence with his arms folded across the top rail, watching the horses graze. He didn't turn his head when his partner came up beside him and tried to imitate his stance—which didn't work so well with a stiff, sore shoulder in a sling.

"Can we talk about this, pard?"

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Everyone else seems to have an opinion. Might as well hear yours."

 _Might as well grab this ornery ole bull by the horns…_ "Ain't no way around it… them kids are your kinfolk. Kinda a big coincidence, ain't it? You havin' a trunk fulla letters an' journals in your attic… just like them? You gonna tell 'em about that? It ain't been that long ago we talked about it."

"And I told you why I didn't care about getting in contact with them."

"I think that girl is tellin' the truth… that your brother an' sisters didn't _know_ about the letters."

"What difference does that make?"

"Can't fault 'em for somethin' weren't none a their doin'."

"Maybe… but they sure as heck didn't bust a gut looking for us once they _did_ know, so what're you getting at?"

"Look at it this way… wouldn't you worry if you inherited a buncha land an' then found out it weren't all yours like you thought?"

"I suppose so."

"If they'd known your Pa was still alive all them years, betcha they woulda tried to find 'im."

"Possibly."

"Come on, Slim… you know _you_ woulda wanted to… just like I did when I found out my brother might still be alive. Remember… you're the one pushed me to go lookin' for 'im."

"I know."

"I went because he was my _brother_ … not on account a the money."

"I know that, too."

"Puttin' aside your personal feelin's, what about Andy?"

"What about him?"

"Well… you told me the reason you kept all your Ma's journals was so he could know somethin' about his people when he's older. Seems pretty clear he wants to get to know 'em _now_. You tryin' to ride roughshod over what he wants… what he believes is right… that's just plumb wrong an' you know it."

Slim did know it… and that he'd already lost an argument he was too tired to fight.


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22—_ **VIABLE ALTERNATIVES**

 **Back in the barn,** the discussion shifted to disposition of the captives. Daisy wholeheartedly agreed with Marilyn's idea of taking the sisters home with her, but wasn't in favor of her other two patients being locked up in the bunkhouse, however preferable that might be to a jail cell.

Marilyn had managed to elicit the story of the gang from Ruth Ann while all the females were congregated in the washroom… how the orphans and runaways had come together for safety; how they'd turned to theft in order to feed, clothe and shelter themselves; how the girls factored into their activities. All this she relayed to the sheriff, stressing that the girls' role in last night's debacle was in trying to _prevent_ a crime from being committed.

The two women—mothers by experience and nurturers by nature—drew down on the sheriff.

"Is it absolutely necessary to prosecute these young people?" Marilyn queried.

"I _have_ to arrest them," Mort said. "That's what we do with horse thieves, Miz Bartlett. It's the law… and my job."

"They're _children_ , for heaven's sake," Daisy entreated, "trying to survive as best they can in a harsh world."

"They're still gang members and that makes them accessories."

"Where's your compassion, Mort?" Marilyn asked, equally experienced in inducing guilt pangs.

"Ladies… are you suggesting they go free?" the sheriff countered. "They're old enough to know right from wrong… and the consequences of stealing."

"Technically, they aren't in possession of _any_ stolen horses," Marilyn retorted. "They didn't get that far."

" _Intent_ to steal is a punishable offense."

"Can you _prove_ that was their intent? Have any of them confessed to you personally? As I understand it, anything they've said to me is merely hearsay… inadmissible in court."

"True… but…" Mort sighed. He could see where this was going. Trust women to allow their hearts to overrule common sense… and legalities.

"Surely some other arrangements could be made," Daisy stated. "Surely they've learned their lesson."

"We can't just turn 'em loose," the sheriff argued feebly. "Someone has to take responsibility and guarantee future conduct."

"That's what we're talking about, Mort," Marilyn said. "If we could find homes for the girls… and positions for those two young men once they're fit to work…"

The sheriff rolled his eyes. "Our orphanage and workhouse are already full of unwanted children. No one in his right mind'll take on a juvenile with a criminal history… or a halfbreed Indian. And neither of those boys are gonna be fit for any meaningful work for a long time, even if someone could be persuaded to give 'em a job."

"If they aren't arrested and don't go to trial, they won't _have_ a criminal history," Marilyn insisted. "And if everyone agrees to keep quiet, no one will ever know what really happened here."

Daisy upped the ante. "No jury is going to convict those girls… especially a pregnant one. And where's the human decency in saving those boys' lives so you can hang them later?"

"I understand where you're coming from but…"

"Doesn't the Bible preach forgiveness of sins… and compassion for lost souls?" Daisy was relentless. "If God can forgive children gone astray, can't you find it in your heart to offer these a second chance?"

Privately, the sheriff agreed. He was sworn to uphold the law, no matter the degree of the offense… but was it morally right that a starving individual be prosecuted for stealing a loaf of bread? Certainly not. A horse wasn't in the same category, though. What about a cow—another man's livelihood—if needed to feed a destitute and hungry family? Where did the line between right and wrong become blurred and questionable? If he arrested these kids, he'd have no say-so in their disposition. If no arrests were made in the first place, he'd be in a position to help get them to a better place in life.

"It's not entirely up to me, ladies," the sheriff finally capitulated. "First, you'll have to convince Slim to not file charges. Second, if he agrees, it'll be up to you to make these other arrangements you mentioned. I can't be involved. I can't afford to be voted out of office if word gets out I've gone soft on crime. Understood?"

The two women smiled their thanks as they heard Slim and Jess returning.

" **Am I hearing this correctly?** You're asking me to not press charges?"

"Basically… yes, we are," the sheriff responded with a conciliatory gesture.

"Didn't we already talk about this, Mort?" Slim snapped.

"We did… but the ladies here put up a convincing argument and won me over to their way of thinking."

"I don't want to hear it," Slim ground through gritted teeth.

Daisy laid a hand on his arm, wheedling, "Please, Slim. Won't you listen? For my sake?"

"Well… okay. Only because it's you asking…"

As she repeated practically verbatim the preceding conversation, still clutching his arm, she could almost feel the anger draining from him. Almost, but not quite. Before he could say anything, she turned to Jess, who'd been standing by looking thoughtful… and troubled.

"What do _you_ think? I know it's asking a lot, expecting you to understand… considering…" Referring, of course, to his being injured in the melee.

With an apologetic glance at his partner, Jess spoke slowly. "Sorry… but I gotta agree with 'em."

"What? Why?" the rancher sputtered. "One of 'em _shot_ you!"

"Yeah… but it weren't personal. He was just defendin' hisself."

Slim shook his head in disbelief at the sheriff. "I can't believe you, Mort… of all people… condoning horse stealing."

"Not condoning anything, Slim…" Marilyn interjected. "We're trying to work out a beneficial resolution here… rather than sending children to prison… or the gallows."

"Boys younger than those two have hung for less."

"Capital punishment isn't always the optimum solution. Mort believes, as we do, that—with the right guidance—these youngsters are good candidates for rehabilitation."

"It's not my place to fix other people's lives."

" **You fixed mine,"** Jess said quietly. "You gave me that second chance."

"You weren't stealing my horses."

"No. But you knew what I was… an' even today you don't know half a what I done when I was their age."

"I don't think I should be hearing this," Mort murmured uncomfortably, starting to sidle away.

Jess grinned. "Don't worry. You ain't gonna hear it now an' maybe never." The grin faded. "Just sayin', if Slim hadn't took me in when he did, I mighta gone out an' done a lot worse. More'n likely'd be six feet under or in prison. I been where those boys are today. I know what it's like, bein' a kid with no family an' no prospects. It's easy… way too easy… to go down that wrong road when you're tryin' to stay alive."

Whether it was Daisy's fundamental belief in the innocence of children or Jess' admission that salvation could be achieved through another man's compassion, Slim's rock-hard obstinacy was losing its grip.

"I'm not one hundred percent sure we're doing the right thing… or doing them any favors by letting them off the hook… but I'm willing to compromise."

"What about the other kids? You gonna give _them_ a chance, too?" Jess asked softly.

"Guess I'm gonna have to," Slim shrugged. "I know when I'm outgunned."

Relief was both audible and visible among the others.

Mort spoke up. "How about I deputize you and Jess and put these kids under house arrest while I do some more investigating?"

"I guess that would work… except the girls won't be here."

"No problem. I'll just deputize Miz Bartlett, too."

It took a moment for that proposal to sink in. A grin finally creased Slim's face.

"Good one, Mort! Thought you were serious there for a second…"

"I _am_ serious… it'll just be a formality anyway—sort of an honorary title, but enough to satisfy the letter of the law in case word of this gets out. Whaddya say, Miz Bartlett? You up for it?"

"I don't see why not, if there's no rule saying a woman can't serve as a law officer."

"Mort… whoever heard of a female deputy?" Slim snorted with derision.

"I have." Jess' quiet statement caught everyone by surprise. "Down in Barronville, Texas. Sheriff Jory's got one name a Andy. Totes a sawed-off shotgun an' you don't wanna get on her bad side."

"There's a term for women like that… that want to be men…"

"She ain't one of 'em, Slim. She cleans up real good an' looks just like any other gal when she ain't on the job an' wearin' a dress."

"I'll take your word for it."

Marilyn bristled at her neighbor. "You disappoint me, Slim, if you feel that my putting on a badge makes me any less of a woman."

"Now, Marilyn… that's not what I meant."

"That's what it sounded like…"

Mort spoke up. "Can we move on here? We've got things to do today."

 **It was decided that the best course of action** regarding the Pennsylvanians would be to temporarily return them to the boarding house. There they could get properly washed up and changed into clean clothes while Mort checked in at the jail and telegraph office to see what, if any, new developments had turned up with regard to police inquiries or the Pinkertons. Marilyn would be taking Ruth Ann and her sisters home to the Bartlett place as agreed. Having returned to the barn, Orrie and Andy volunteered to ready the rigs and went off to catch up the horses.

Meanwhile, the discussion moved on to another subject.

Slim faced Marilyn, his forehead crinkled with indecision. "About the two boys who were killed at your place…"

"Yes… two more escaped."

"Same here—Jess was going for 'em when he got shot. So that makes four outlaws still on the loose."

"Five… Ruth Ann says there was another girl who got away," Marilyn said.

"Maybe I should stick around here… in case they come back and try to rescue their friends. I'm not comfortable with leaving Orrie and Andy alone… and with Jess in the state he's in…"

"I asked Ruth Ann about that," Marilyn said. "She doesn't think they will. As I understand it, Rusty is… was… the leader. His second in command—Elliott—was in charge of the group that attacked us. Even if Elliott decides on a breakout attempt, he'll have to locate the other three first and work out a plan. That'll take some time and probably won't happen today or even tonight."

"Do the girls know yet what happened with the rest of their gang?"

"No… and there's no telling how they'll react."

"Best not say anything yet," Slim opined. "They'll find out soon enough and they'll likely be upset. Especially if one of them turns out to be the father of the baby."

"No," Marilyn advised. " _That_ one's on your sofa."

"We need to get the bodies to town and come up with a cover story," Mort said. "Maybe we should swing by and pick 'em up."

"Don't even _think_ about putting them in with us," Slim said hastily.

"Of course not," Marilyn soothed. "When we get to the cutoff, you and Mort go on ahead. I'll get the girls situated indoors where they can't see anything while the bodies are being loaded on our buckboard. Tim or one of the hands can drive it in."

 **Orrie brought up the buckboard first.** Slim carried Ruth Ann out of the house and placed her on the seat next to Marilyn. Mort escorted the two younger sisters and settled them in the bed atop piles of sacking to cushion the ride.

Waiting for Andy to bring up the spring wagon, the Eastern kids stood off to the side with Jess, Daisy and Mike. Earlier, Maxine'd extracted a promise from Slim that they'd be allowed to return the following day after everyone'd got a good night's rest. Though originally intending to drive, he was still leery of leaving the ranch unprotected for too long. He turned to Ben.

"Can you handle a team?"

"We're farmers. Tabbie and I both can drive anything from a one-horse shay to a six-up combine harvester."

"In that case, you drive and I'll ride my own horse. That way, if we get done early enough I can come on home. I'll leave the wagon and team at Jackson's for you to drive back here tomorrow."

"How will we get back to town, then?"

"We'll work all that out later."

Slim went to the barn to saddle Alamo. Upon his return, Max startled him by rising on her tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek.

"Everything will be all right, Uncle Slim. You'll change your mind about us."

Standing nearby, Andy was snorting with amusement until she rounded on him and bussed him as well. "You, too… Uncle Andy," she whispered in his ear. "Thanks for taking our part."

Not to be outdone, Tabbie and Eddie followed suit. Both brothers were thoroughly chagrined. Jess was laughing outright until the three girls advanced on him. Before he could say _don't do it_ , they'd done it.

"Wouldn't want to overlook our _honorary_ uncle," Max said with a wink, squeezing Jess' hand. For a split second it looked like she was intending to kiss him a second time… on the mouth.

Belatedly remembering Martha Jackson's words of warning, Ben moved to intervene by offering to shake hands first with Jess, forcing Max to let go. Turning to the uncle younger than himself, he grinned and stuck out his hand.

"See you tomorrow… _Uncle!_ "

Mike had prudently found something that needed urgent attention over by his critter pens. No way was he having all those girls slobbering on _him!_

Slim had some parting words for his household as he mounted up. "Don't hold supper for me, Daisy, in case I have to stay over. Andy, Orrie… you'll have to handle the afternoon stage with whoever's driving. If I'm not back by sundown you'll have to do the evening chores, too. Sorry about that."

"No problem."

Jess started to open his mouth when Slim leveled a finger at him. "YOU… stay _in_ the house until Young Doc gets here. Do exactly what Daisy says and no more. Got it?"

"Aw, Slim… I ain't hurt that bad."

"You're in no shape to be messing with horses or anything else. I want your word you'll mind Daisy."

"But…"

"Swear it!"

"Okay… okay. I swear I'll mind Daisy."

"Good… but I want you to keep an eye on those two desperadoes. That's something you _can_ do resting in a chair."

Jess' disgruntled visage lightened a little. It was good to be needed.

Slim looked around furtively to make sure Daisy and Mike were out of earshot. "One more thing… keep in mind that there're still five gang members on the loose, if what Miz Bartlett was told is the truth. I'm thinking they probably won't be back but you never know. I want all three of you armed and watchful. Make sure Mike and Daisy keep close by the house. I'll try to be back this afternoon or tonight but don't count on it."

As the entourage rounded the bend and passed out of sight, Daisy turned to her remaining 'boys'—Jess, Andy and Mike—plus Orrie, whom she counted as 'honorary' whenever he was around.

"Andy, Orrie… I'm sure you know what needs doing and don't require any instruction from me. Off you go! Jess, you should rest…"

"I reckon I've rested all I need to, Daisy," Jess objected.

"That may well be… nevertheless, you're staying in the house where I can keep an eye on you. Mike… I need your help changing bed linens."

"What about lunch, Aunt Daisy? I'm hungry," Mike whined.

"Lunch… right. You and I'll take care of that first and _then_ we'll do the beds."

 **Reentering the parlor,** the four were surprised to find one of the 'guests' sitting up—Coyote on the fainting couch by the front door, looking positively out of sorts at finding himself in a white man's nightshirt. Rusty was propped up on one elbow on the sofa at the back of the room. It was fairly obvious they'd been communicating.

When Jess looked to her for direction, Daisy cut her eyes toward Coyote before proceeding to the back of the room. Jess hooked one of the armchairs by the fireplace, turning it around so he could sit facing the native. Mike stood behind him, both hands gripping the backrest with an intensity that sent vibrations down the spindles and into the seat where Jess could feel them. It'd been two years since the child had witnessed the deaths of his folks at the hands of Indians. Thanks to the efforts of his adopted family, Mike'd come to accept that not _all_ redskins were bad people, just as not _all_ whites were good people. He was no longer terrified at the sight of an Indian though still troubled with the occasional nightmare.

It occurred to Jess that engaging this particular native in civilized, non-confrontational conversation could be a valuable learning experience for Mike.

"How's the leg?" Jess' solicitous inquiry was met with stony silence.

"My name's Jess. His is Mike. What's yours?"

Nothing.

"Maybe he don't speak English," Mike murmured in Jess' ear.

"Oh… I'm sure he understands us just fine."

Still nothing.

"Maybe he's scared of us?"

"Mike, it ain't polite to talk about someone like he ain't there. If you wanna ask him somethin', just ask him."

An eyeblink betrayed a flicker of interest.

"Or maybe he'd like to hear a funny story… like about my friend Two Dogs."

"Two Dogs? What kinda name is that?" Mike asked.

"That's exactly what I asked my friend when we first met up." Jess kept his eyes locked on the other man's. "An' he told me about how—in his village—it were the custom for the chief to pick names for the new babies, accordin' to the first thing he saw when he stepped outta his teepee in the mornin'… names like 'Spotted Fawn' and 'Grey Owl'. Well, the first thing the old man saw on the mornin' my friend was born was… uh… two dogs… um… makin' puppies."

Mike giggled. Twitches appeared at the corners of the captive audience's mouth but he didn't give in. Jess realized humor was going to be the best tool to crack this nut.

"Two Dogs said that chief took a likin' to the free cheese the government was handin' out on the rez, so he ate a lot of it. An' you know what happens when you eat too much cheese, doncha?"

Rapid eye blinks now. Progress.

Jess continued. "So the chief goes to the medicine man, complainin' about bein' bound up. The doc gives him some medicine an' says, 'Drink this an' come back tomorrow'. Next day, the doc asks the chief 'You move?' an' the chief says 'No move.' So the doc gives him more medicine an' the same advice. Next day, doc asks again 'You move?' 'No move' says the chief. Well, this goes on all week until finally the doc asks 'You move?'… an' the chief says…"

Jess paused for effect. Tears were forming at the corners of his audience's eyes from the strain of holding it in.

"What'd the chief say?" Mike queried anxiously. Jess turned his head to be sure Daisy was out of earshot.

"Chief say 'Gotta move. Teepee fulla shit.' "

Mike wasn't too sure he got it but the Indian sure did. A rumbling deep in his chest welled up into choking laughter. He had to use the sleeve of his nightshirt to wipe away the tears trickling down his cheeks. Jess was laughing, too, and so was Mike… although he was a bit nervous about Jess' using a bad word when he wasn't supposed to.

On a whim, Jess extended his hand, hoping the customary gesture in the way of white men wouldn't dampen the spark of conciliation. It didn't.

Coyote admitted his name was Mikasi… 'Coyote' in your tongue, which I speak very well, by the way. At least as well as you."

"That ain't sayin' much. Good to meet you, Coyote."

"Wish I could say the same, but under the circumstances…" He grimaced as he shifted the bandaged leg. "I'm the one shot you, you know."

"Yeah, I know. Slim said." Jess turned and waved towards the two curious faces on the other side of the parlor. "His little brother's the one who shot _you_."

"Maybe I'll have an opportunity to thank him for not killing me, before they string us up."

"Who're your people, Coyote?" With Mike hanging around, Jess wanted to steer away from gallows-talk, humorous or otherwise.

"Omaha nation, born to the Real Thunder clan…"

"Never met one a your tribe before."

Coyote shrugged. "Well… we're not numerous—thanks to the smallpox—but we _are_ famous… your people named a city after us the year after I was born. I expect it'll be around long after us redskins are wiped off the map."

Another topic Jess didn't care to pursue. He turned to Mike. "Looks like Daisy got sidetracked. Maybe you could start us a pot a coffee? I know you know how to make it…"

"Oh, sure, Jess!" Delighted to be entrusted with such an important task, the boy whirled away and disappeared into the kitchen.

 **The exchange turned serious** as Jess lowered his voice and leaned in.

"Who are you, really? You ain't no Indian."

"Excuse me? What makes you think that?"

"You don't talk like no Indian I ever met."

"No mystery there. My mother was white, taken as a child during a raid on a wagon train… held with the Thunder clan until repatriated by a company of buffalo soldiers. No trace of her family was ever found and no decent white folks wanted her in their homes… or me, either. She ended up working as a cook at the Jesuit mission in Omaha so I went to their school and learned to be white. Fat lot a good that did me. All the education in the world won't change what I am. I expect you know what I mean. When she died, the best I could do for myself was just walk away. There's no place for me in your world."

"I reckon I do understand," Jess said softly, "… an' I'm sorry. How much'd you overhear earlier, when we was all in the kitchen talkin' over what to do with y'all?"

"Enough to know your tall friend isn't inclined to let us go… but that you think differently. I'd like to know why."

Jess mulled that over for a moment. "Slim was raised up in a good Christian home. Always lived right an' gone by the rulebook. Me, I been makin' my own way by the gun since I were fifteen, most a the time in ways people like him—or the law—don't understand or approve. Then I come to roost here an' started turnin' my life around. I'm gettin' better at it… at bein' more like him… but not so much I forgot what I used to be…"

"So you're saying you're a reformed gunfighter, is that it?" Coyote grunted. "Do I feel a lecture on repentance coming on?"

"No… well… yeah, maybe. What you an' your pard over there do an' say in the next couple days'll decide the vote on whether you live or swing."

"Look, no amount of repentance is gonna turn me any whiter, Jess. I'm an Indian. We kill white men, lift scalps, eat dogs and steal your women and horses. That's what we do. Every white person knows this. Resistance against you is futile. Rusty might get off but I won't… not unless I can figure out a way to escape."

"That mean you're gonna try?"

"Bet your bottom dollar on it."

"Wish you hadn't told me that."

 **At the back of the parlor,** Daisy'd decided her patient with the open wound took priority over lunch. He was doing poorly, no doubt about that. He'd collapsed back on the pillow, having expended his last reserve of energy in trying to sit up. The wound had bled through the double layer of compress. Quickly washing her hands, she applied herself to repacking it, praying he'd hold on until the doctor could get there. He was still conscious… barely… and watching her through slitted eyes. He had a low-grade fever she hoped against hope wouldn't worsen.

"Rusty… yes, I know your name… Ruth Ann told me. No use pretending you don't hear me. The doctor's on his way. There's nothing more I can do for you until he arrives. Do you understand?"

The young man gave her a single nod, whispering, "She… okay?"

"Ruth Ann and the other two young ladies are fine. They're being looked after by a neighbor."

"Not… jail?"

"No… not jail," Daisy soothed. "And you won't be going there, either… or your friend." _Not if I have anything to say about it! "_ You're going to stay right here until you're well."

"Thirsty…"

"Don't move… I'll be right back with something to ease the pain."

 **Hours passed.** The two patients had been sedated with laudanum-laced tea and so had Daisy, though she'd been too tired to notice. Andy'd come and taken the initiative there. As she'd started nodding off, he'd assisted her to a rocker by the fireplace. Jess had taken the other one with an appeal to Andy to keep an eye on things if he dozed off. There was no 'if' about it. He was asleep in less than a minute. Fixing ham and cheese sandwiches for himself and Mike and Orrie, Andy gestured to them to join him on the front porch. Orrie declined, opting to sit at the table and read while he ate. Mike carried Andy's coffee and a glass of milk for himself.

After the hectic events of the night and this morning, the peacefulness of their surroundings seemed surreal. Andy kept stealing glances at his adopted little brother, gauging the effects of such violence on a small and impressionable lad. So far the boy seemed to be taking it in stride, happily munching his second sandwich between slurps of milk.

 _Was I ever that young and adaptable? When did violence become so commonplace in my life?_

At seventeen—almost the same age as his new-found nieces and nephews—Andy realized his own childhood memories were becoming less distinct with every passing year… which was worrying. What if, eventually, some of these experiences—the good, the bad _and_ the ugly—became lost to him? As far as his older brother knew, Andy was still on track for a career in veterinary science. His core curriculum for his freshman year of college was already established but—with his recently discovered interest in journalism and creative writing—he'd decided on English lit as his minor and had been thinking on how to work that in. Also, how to tell Slim about it.

Lost in thought, Andy became aware Mike was speaking to him.

"Are Rusty an' Coyote gonna be hanged?"

"That's what we do with very bad people, Mike. But let's hope not."

"I hope not, too. I don't think they're so bad. And how come Coyote talks so good? Like you?"

"I guess he went to school, like me."

"When dya hafta go back, Andy?"

"Soon… three weeks. You won't see me again until Christmas."

"How come you hafta go to school so far away? I hope I don't have to move far away when I grow up."

"Maybe you won't have to. See, there wasn't any real school for me to go to. Most of the time Slim was my teacher, at home… just like Daisy's your teacher now. But soon they'll have to build one. Just this year the government passed a law that says all children from seven through sixteen _have_ to go to school. So when they do build one, Slim'll have to figure out a way to get you there and back home every day."

"Really?"

"Really. Do you think you'd like that?"

"Oh yeah! Then I'd get to have other friends 'stead a just the Bartletts. An' I hardly ever get to play with them."

 _Now there's a memory I won't lose… what it was like here before Jess came…_

"What about after I'm sixteen, Andy? Then will I have to move away?"

"If you decide you want to go to college, yes… I'm afraid so. But that's a long way off, Mike. Too long to be worrying about it now. The way Laramie's growing, we might even have our own college by then. You never know. It could happen."

"But I don't wanna… hey!… listen… someone's coming…"

Orrie'd heard the approaching vehicle as well and had soundlessly materialized at the door behind them, rifle in hand.


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23—_ **THE NEW QUACK IN TOWN**

 **Andy and Mike got to their feet** as a mud-splattered buggy came slogging around the bend in the road and turned into the yard—not the doctor's rig they'd been expecting. The hatless man who clambered out was a stranger as well.

"This the Sherman place?"

"Yes, sir," Andy replied, not sure what to make of this casually-dressed individual with a riotous mane of unkempt hair tickling his shirt collar.

"If I'd known how bad the road was, I would've ridden in instead of driving. Wasn't sure this poor old fellow was gonna make it."

The sorrel gelding did look played out, from his sweat-curled coat and low-hung head to his mud-encrusted belly and legs.

"You should rest him awhile, mister, before you move on," Andy observed. "It only gets worse." He pointed toward the winding road heading east… and uphill.

"Seeing as how I've already arrived at my intended destination, that won't be a problem. I'm Doctor McPheeters, by the way. You must be… ah… Mister Sherman?"

 _Doctor my foot! Doctors don't make house calls in denims and workshirts. They wear black suit coats and string ties._

"I'm Andy Sherman. My brother runs the place. He's not here, though…"

"You'll have to excuse my appearance," the alleged doctor apologized. "I just got into town yesterday and haven't had time to unpack or find lodgings."

"We were… uh… expecting Doctor Whatleigh?"

"I'm sure you were… but he's unavailable today so he asked me to cover for him. Something about an elderly lady… a Missus Cooper… who fell off a roof?" Retrieving his case from the footwell, he came up to the porch. "Would you mind taking this inside? I'll be in directly I see to my sad horse."

Andy remembered his manners though still undecided as to whether or not the caller was the genuine article. "You'd better come in. I'll take care of the horse for you in a few minutes."

Orrie stepped forward then, having recognized both horse and buggy as being Jackson Livery rentals. "I've got this, Andy. You go on."

 **Doctor McPheeters paused at the threshold** to allow his eyes to adjust. From there he surveyed the decidedly odd configuration of sleeping patients, numbering four instead of the one he'd been anticipating—three men with an assortment of bandages and one old lady with no visible injuries consistent with having fallen from a roof. He lifted a shaggy eyebrow at Andy in an unspoken query for elucidation.

"That's Daisy… Miz Cooper… she isn't really sick or hurt…"

"She's tired," Mike quipped, having trailed in behind. "Cuz she's really, really old an' could die just anytime now."

"I see. And the others?"

"They all been shot, mister!" Mike trilled.

Andy gently took Mike by the shoulders. "It's doctor, not mister. Why don't you go and make us some coffee and let me do the explaining, okay?"

"Already made a bunch a coffee today an' nobody drunk it," Mike pouted.

"Even better," Andy encouraged. "Then all you have to do is warm it up and see there's enough clean cups and saucers to go around. And put sugar and cream and spoons on the table. Can you do that for me?"

"Uh huh."

Mike disappeared into the kitchen and Andy rolled his eyes. "Kids! Sorry about that…"

The doctor cleared his throat to disguise a chuckle at this comment from an adolescent barely out of short britches himself.

"So… ah… who fell off the roof?"

"Him," Andy pointed to Jess. "He did."

"Before or after he was shot? Not that it makes any difference."

"I don't know. I didn't see it happen. His name's Jess."

"Who shot him?"

"He did." Andy pointed to the occupant of the fainting couch. "Coyote. He's an Indian."

"So I see. And who shot _him?_ "

"I did. At least I _think_ it was me. Might've been Jess, though. Hard to tell in the dark."

"And that one—over there in the back—was shot by…?"

"My brother. That's Rusty."

"Your brother's name is Rusty?"

"No… it's Slim. But it could've been Jess shot him."

"Jess shot Slim?"

"No… Rusty."

"Is there anyone else Jess _might_ have shot?" The doctor's lightly veiled sarcasm was lost on Andy.

"Well… a couple of girls were nicked when he was shootin' at the other horse thieves and relatives out in the road. Oh… and two horses were killed."

The doctor's left eye was twitching. "Female relatives were… uh… stealing your horses and you shot at them?"

"We didn't know they were relatives until afterwards. Or girls. Except one was a boy. One of the relatives, that is. The horse thieves on the road were all girls. The ones by the barn were boys… these two here."

"And the others are… where?" Beads of perspiration were starting to form at the doctor's hairline.

"Not here. Some went to town with Slim and the sheriff and the others are over at the Bartletts' place down the road."

"And how bad were these… um… other injuries?"

"Not too bad. Buckshot, mainly… but it's mostly picked out now. The pregnant one's got a messed up ankle. One of the girls was scared so bad she couldn't talk. Daisy thinks Jess landed on his head when he fell off the roof 'cause he wasn't making any sense there for a while but he seems okay now. Slim got a little graze on the head but he's okay, too."

 _Coffee, hell! I need a_ real _drink,_ the doctor was thinking, still standing in the doorframe. _I've landed in the county loony bin._

"Would you mind waking up Missus Cooper and letting her know I'm here? Wouldn't want her to take fright at a strange man in the house."

 **Andy managed to jiggle Daisy awake** without disturbing the others.

"Doctor's here, Aunt Daisy… only it's not Young Doc but a new one. He'd like to speak with you."

"Of course, of course… I just need a moment to compose myself."

Daisy was nonplussed at being caught in a state of unreadiness but it was too late to do anything about it. As Andy helped her up, her hands automatically sought to straighten her apron and smooth her hair. Looking around for someone resembling a physician she saw only what appeared to be a cowhand dressed for range work.

"Where is he?"

"Right there, Aunt Daisy. That's him…"

At that point the man approached her close enough she could distinguish his features—sandy hair going gray, faded blue eyes in a wide craggy face with a strong chin. There was an odd familiarity about him although she was sure they'd not met before. He was about Jess' height but stockier and older—mid- to late-thirties, she judged. When Andy introduced her, the man gave a courtly bow.

"Doctor McPheeters at your service, Missus Cooper. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I… er… oh… I'm very pleased to meet you as well, Doctor… um…"

"Jaimeson McPheeters… but I hope that soon everyone'll think of me as Doc Jaimie."

"Orrie and I need to start setting up for the afternoon stage, Doc Jaimie," Andy announced, "But if you need us for anything, there's a calling triangle by the kitchen door."

"Thank you, Andy. It appears I'll be here awhile."

Mike sidled up. "Coffee'll be hot in a minute, if you still want it… Mister Doctor Jaimie."

"I certainly do, young man. Lead the way."

"I believe I could use some as well," Daisy fluttered.

"Just let me have a quick look at our patients, then I'll need to make some preliminary notes…"

" **I'm not usually this disorganized,"** Daisy apologized as they sat at the kitchen table. "It's just that with all the hullabaloo here last night… I presume someone must have explained…?"

"No m'am. I happened to be in the clinic when a colored man came in and said a doctor was needed here urgently. Doctor Whatleigh was called away on an emergency so I came instead. Nothing was mentioned about a gunfight." When Doc Jaimie smiled, the laugh lines in his cheeks resolved into the deepest dimples Daisy'd ever seen.

"I'm afraid we were set upon by horse thieves in the wee hours. But the sheriff and Mister Sherman are withholding that information for the time being. They don't want to unduly alarm the populace."

"Understandable. Well, as I told your nephew, I've just arrived in town so I wasn't prepared for house calls."

"You're opening a new practice in Laramie?" Daisy queried, deciding an explanation of her relationship to the Shermans could wait.

"Going into partnership with Fred Whatleigh. He says it'll be at least another ten years before the county can support a hospital here, so he wants to expand the clinic."

"We certainly can use another doctor. Could I get you something to eat… or make some fresh coffee? This is a bit stale."

"No, thank you. Sooooo… why don't I start with you, Missus Cooper?"

"Me? Why… there's wrong with me. I'm not ill in the slightest… it's the others…"

"Well then, what can you tell me about our patients? Fred says you're one of the finest nurses he's ever had the privilege to work with… and if he thought he could get away with it, he'd poach you for our own surgery."

Daisy was pleasantly surprised at his use of _our_ rather than _my_ … and flattered by the commendation from a greatly admired medical professional. Doctors in general were far too inflated by their own importance to accord any credit to nurses, Young Doc being a rare exception.

As they cleaned off one end of the parlor table and spread a clean sheet on which to arrange the contents of Doctor Jaimie's case, Daisy described the various injuries and how she'd treated them. "Unfortunately, at my age I no longer possess the stamina I once enjoyed. I became too fatigued to carry on and a neighbor had to take over. Missus Bartlett's never served as a nurse herself but she's extremely competent."

 **As he was already showing signs** of returning to wakefulness, Jess was first in line for inspection. Introductions were exchanged as he stood up to shake hands.

"Jess Harper. Pleased to meetcha."

"Here, too. Jaimie McPheeters. I'm the new quack in town. Heard you don't have any more sense than to be roaming a rooftop when bullets are flying."

Jess grinned, already liking this new medic.

Doc Jaimie requested that Jess shift over to the parlor table where the light was better, forestalling Daisy's move to lend a helping arm. "Let's see how he goes on his own."

The doctor nodded with approval when the patient required no assistance, and again when a lit match held up to his eyes proved both pupils equal and reactive. He was also pleased with Jess' answers to queries concerning his vision, speech and hearing. Other than a mild headache and a small bump at the back of his head, there were no manifestations of concussion. "The headache may persist for a few days but there's no cause for concern unless it worsens."

Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been more worried about the bump on Jess' head than the hole in his hide—not an unusual occurrence in her two-plus years tenure on the ranch.

"Let's take a look at that gunshot wound."

Jess hoisted his shirt out of the way.

"Good job," the doctor commented. "Neat, clean… no sign of infection. Couldn't have done better myself."

Daisy's innate honesty wouldn't let her accept praise for another's handiwork and she said so.

"I debrided and cleansed the wound but someone else did the suturing."

"Is that so? Who?"

"A young girl… a teenager who was among last night's… ah… guests. She said her father was a doctor and she'd learned from him. She assisted with the next patient as well, after Missus Bartlett arrived."

"Is that a fact? Do you happen to know if she'd be interested in a position as clinic nurse?"

"I rather doubt it."

"Too bad."

Doc Jaimie clapped Jess on the shoulder, eliciting a wince. "Some trouble there?"

"His shoulder was dislocated in the fall. Slim fixed it," Daisy contributed, "…and we iced it to keep it from swelling."

"You have ice? I wouldn't have expected that."

"Oh yes… we have an ice house… more of a cave, dug into the hill behind the corral. Most folks store ice in their root cellars if they have one."

"That's certainly convenient. Jess, that shoulder'll be tender for a while. Keep the arm in a sling until it stops aching. Keep the wound clean. No heavy lifting and no riding for at least a week. Tell the boss I said so."

"Actually…" Daisy ventured timidly, "he _is_ the boss… one of them, anyway. He and Slim and Andy are equal partners in the ranch."

"Indeed? I'll remember that in future. Now… who's next?"

 **Coyote was awake by then** and sitting up. More introductions were made. Daisy was watching carefully to see how the new doctor would react to ministering to a native. To his credit, he was as affable with the Indian as he'd been with Jess and didn't talk down to him as most white men would've automatically done.

"Looking good. You'll be sore for some time but once it heals you shouldn't experience any permanent lameness."

"Thanks, doc. Can I walk around?"

"Probably ought to stay off it for a few days," Doc Jaimie said, adding dryly, "Wouldn't recommend participating in any war parties or rain dances for a while, though."

Coyote couldn't think of how to respond to that. Between the 'rescue' from the tribe and final installation at the mission, he and his mother'd had a few unpleasant experiences with government physicians. On the whole, they were disinterested, dismissive and frequently surly—representing the dregs of civil service. Certainly he'd never encountered one with a humorous bent.

 **Doctor Jaimie's demeanor changed** with the last patient. His face went impassive as he investigated the wound, looking back to Daisy. "Can we have a word in private?"

She gestured for him to follow her into what was obviously the men's bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"How bad, do you think? I cleaned it out as best I could. Can he be moved?"

"No. Not in his current condition."

"Before she left, Marilyn… the neighbor who helped… removed a number of fragments but was unable to extract the bullet. He was quite feverish this morning but his temperature came down considerably after we packed ice around him."

"An astute move, Missus Cooper. Cooling a patient seems to aid in retarding infection. We don't really now why. I don't believe sepsis has set in but we must extract the bullet right away… despite the risk."

Daisy choked. "Good Lord! Here? Now?"

"We have nothing to lose except the patient if we don't. Are you up to it?"

"Well… yes… I suppose I'll have to be."

Doctor Jaimie had in mind conscripting Andy to serve as anesthesiologist but was informed the young man was needed elsewhere… the afternoon stage would be along soon. "How about you, Jess? It's not difficult. Thankfully our boy's not conscious at the moment. If he does start coming to, all you have to do is give him a few whiffs of chloroform. I'm assuming you're a veteran and acquainted with its use?"

"Yeah, I am… on both counts," Jess admitted.

"Then let's get started."

 **The undertaking lasted several hours.** Every time Rusty showed signs of stirring, he was promptly returned to the realm of dreams. The doctor worked at an unhurried, steady but gentle pace as the three of them shared a little of one another's background. He kept his eyes on his work and his hands never stopped moving… until Daisy told of her posting to Mansion House Hospital in Alexandria, Virginia.

"My husband and son were away and volunteer nurses were so desperately needed…"

Doctor Jaimie gave her a brief speculative look. "When were you there, Missus Cooper?"

"I arrived in the middle of September, 1861. My husband and my son—our only child—had both enlisted. I wanted… needed… to do my part… and keep busy. My husband survived but our son perished at Chickamauga."

"Maybe we shouldn't be talkin' about this," Jess interjected in a gruff tone, a warning intended for the doctor. By mutual consent, the late war had long been a topic best left unexplored in this house. Daisy'd never elaborated on her wartime service—just as he and Slim'd been deliberately vague about theirs. She knew, of course, that Slim'd fought for the Union while Jess'd been with the Confederacy… but the two men avoided bringing that up out of consideration for her terrible loss at the hands of rebel soldiers.

"It's all right, Jess… it was a long time ago. I've made peace with the past."

"Yes… but…"

"I was there," Doctor Jaimie murmured, not looking at either of them.

"You were? I'm sorry… I don't remember…"

"No reason you should… I was a lowly surgical assistant then. Nurses weren't allowed in the surgical suites and interns weren't allowed to roam at large in the post-op wards. Only residents and attendings. We might have passed each other in the corridors but we were forbidden to fraternize with females on duty."

Daisy allowed a muted titter to escape. "That may have been the rule, but there was quite a lot of fraternizing going on in supply closets, as I recall."

Jess was shocked. His ears pricked up nonetheless.

Doc Jaimie chuckled. "Desperate times, desperate people. When a man's been separated from his wife for so long…"

"Speaking from experience?"

"My first wife passed away shortly after war was declared."

"Oh… I'm so sorry."

"After the war, I married my best friend's widow. She'd been looking after my three children along with her own two. We've had two more together since then. Four boys and three girls altogether."

"Is your family here with you?"

"Not yet. Annie and the children are with her sister in Boston until I find a suitable residence for us in Laramie. I believe we're ready to close up now…"

"Close up?"

"Our patient, Missus Cooper."

"Oh… of course."

What came next sparked an idea in Daisy's head…

"We need a house big enough to accommodate live-in help… a married couple, if possible," Doc Jaimie continued conversationally as he plied the suture needle. "I love my wife and she's a wonderful mother… but she's an awful cook and a worse housekeeper. As for me, I'm completely inept at yard maintenance or fixing things around the house. The couple who've been with us for years don't want to leave Boston. Maybe you can think of someone who might be interested… or put the word out?"

"I'll see what I can do."

 _ **Ben's Journal, Friday, July 24:**_ _3:00pm, Jackson's Boarding House. Just got through transcribing yesterday's notes. Might as well get started on today's entry._

 _Seemed to take a very long time to get to town. My shoulder was hurting some and Tabbie knew it so she and Max took over the bench and made me lie down in back with Eddie. I didn't feel like arguing. Tabs and Max did rock/paper/scissors to see who got to drive. Tabs won. Uncle Slim and the sheriff rode a little way ahead. Missus Bartlett veered off when we passed the cutoff to her place._

 _When we got to town, the sheriff went on to the jail and Slim had Tabbie drive by the boarding house, where we all got out. He stayed long enough to have a private word with Missus Jackson then led the wagon away to the livery stable. Said he'd be back to check on us after a while._

 _Missus Jackson already had that big bathtub ready and waiting and fussed like no tomorrow over the girls. Ladies first, she said… so while the girls were bathing I got to sit at the kitchen table while Missus Jackson picked the rest of the birdshot out of my shoulder. When the girls were done, she bundled them into robes and fed them lunch while I had my turn in the tub._

 _She gave me a pair of clean longjohn bottoms and said I could stay in there as long as I wanted but when I was done to come back to the kitchen. A hot bath never felt so good even though all those little birdshot holes stung like hell. Every now and again the little boy, Anthony, came in to see if I needed more hot water or anything. When I came out the girls had gone upstairs for naps. Missus Jackson rubbed some kind of stinky yellow salve on my shoulder that smelled to high heaven but took out most of the sting, then fed me lunch along with the family. They sat at the other end of the table as far away from me as they could get. Can't say as I blamed them._

 _Mister Jackson and the others went back to work at the livery and Missus Jackson put down the little ones for naps. I could use one myself but now she wants to hear all about what happened yesterday and last night so I'll have to finish this later…_


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24—_ **A BLINDING FLASH OF ILLUMINATION**

 **Much earlier that day,** standing in the breezeway of Jackson's livery, Slim reminded Avery—out of hearing of his two hired men—of the importance of keeping the night's events out of the public domain.

"It's not lying, exactly… we're just omitting certain elements for the time being."

"Folks gonna notice when dem dead boys be brung in," Avery said. "They gonna be axin' questions."

"We'll tell 'em there were attacks on both our place and Bartlett's, but the thieves got away… which is partly true—two at theirs and three at ours. No one needs to know about the ones we caught until we decide what to do with 'em." The rancher seemed reluctant to admit he was capable of prevarication.

"You ain't pressin' no charges?" Avery asked, more surprised than judgmental—knowing what a stickler Slim Sherman was for adherence to the laws of the land.

"I'd intended to… but Daisy and Missus Bartlett talked me out of it, more or less. I must be getting soft."

"It ain't 'bout bein' soft, Loot'nant," the blacksmith said softly. "It be 'bout givin' folks second chances."

"Yeah… that's what they said."

"What 'bout t'others, suh… yo' kinfolk? What we tell folk when dey axe… 'cuz dey _will_ be axin'. Word done got out. Already heered first thing that Pinkaton fella's been makin' a big stink evah since he get back from yo place."

"My place?" Slim was baffled. "When did this happen?"

"Yestiddy aft'noon. Andy tole me an' Orrie dis mawnin' whilst you's cotchin' a nap in de barn. Wasn't you dere? Din't nobuddy tell you?"

"I was gone over to Keogh's for a few hours…"

"Man got rough with Daisy an' Jess ran him off. Shot his hat plum offen he haid."

"He _what?_ " Slim yelped.

"He tellin' anyone what'll listen you's harborin' runaways, maybe even holdin' 'em 'gainst dey will."

"That's a load of horseshit!"

"He be sayin' he go to 'vestigate, Jess try t'kill 'im."

" _That_ I can believe. Except maybe that he _missed._ "

"He go complainin' at de sherf's office den go fire off a buncha telegrams. Musta slipped Mister Mort's mind ta tell ya 'bout it."

Slim let out a string of cursewords that had people across the streets turning their heads.

"When I find that bastard…"

"Best simmer down some, Loot'nant," Avery advised. "Don't go gettin' yourself inta any fixes. Anybuddy axe, we tells 'em go talk wit d'sherf. He say dem young 'uns safe an' sound an' ain't nobody's bizness wheah dey is."

Slim took a deep breath. "Thanks, Avery. I'm going to see him right now. And thanks to both of you for your help last night."

"Any time, Loot'nant… any time. By the way, suh," Avery added with a grin. "I seen 'im yestiddy when he come in t'hire a buggy. Seen 'im headin' fer de sherf's office a few minutes ago. Can't miss 'im. Little fat goober with a snappy suit an' a attitude. Got hisself a nice new hat, too…"

 **Steaming up the boardwalk to the jail,** Slim could hear loud voices reverberating through the door. He jerked it open with enough force to rattle the hinges, interrupting the altercation between Mort and a nattily attired little fellow with a tomato-red face. Mort was sitting behind his desk but stood up abruptly as the equally wrathful rancher stomped in and grabbed the shorter man by the lapels, lifting him up on his tiptoes.

"I'm gonna rip your balls off!"

"Now Slim… put 'im down. Let's not get hasty. This here's…"

"I know what he is… and he's about to be a soprano!"

"I said… put him down!" Mort shouted back.

Slim glared but let go. The little man stumbled backwards and made a show of adjusting his suit coat.

"I demand you arrest this man immediately… for assault and battery!"

"Shut up, Mister Rademacher. You, too, Slim. Or I'll arrest both of you for annoying a peace officer."

Slim ignored him, bellowing at his adversary. "I'm gonna sue you _and_ your damned agency for libel, malicious mischief, trespassing, invasion of privacy, improper advances to my housekeeper and any other damned thing I can think of."

"I most certainly made no such advances to that woman," the agent sneered. "I merely wished to ascertain…"

"I'll ascertain your sorry ass to hell if you ever, EVER set foot on my property again," Slim hollered, once again advancing toward the man with raised fists.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Mort yelled even louder, pulling out his pistol and firing into the ceiling.

In the stunned silence that followed, shredded plaster rained down on all three men. Plaster dust mingled with gunsmoke. Footsteps pounded on the boardwalk outside. The door frame filled with the wide-eyed faces of the barber from next door, a customer with a shaving-soap beard, and Willie Clyde Fields, the town drunk.

"Everything okay in here?" the barber inquired timidly.

"Accidental discharge, Homer. Nothing to worry about," Mort demurred. "Go on about your business." Strolling around his desk to close the door, he pointed to the two visitor chairs facing his desk.

"Sit. I'll do the talking."

"Those runaways…" Rademacher started to say.

"Listen. And listen good. Those four young people are Mister Sherman's nephew and nieces. They came here of their own free will to visit their relatives, regardless of whether or not they bothered to inform their families back in Pennsylvania of their intentions. He had no prior knowledge of this visitation. However, now that they're here, they are free to come and go to his ranch as he… and they… choose. Until I receive further instructions from their parents or a designated authority, I'm assigning temporary guardianship to Matthew Sherman."

"Mort, I can't…" Slim started to say.

"Quiet. We'll discuss this privately when Mister Rademacher has excused himself."

The little man just couldn't keep his yap shut. "Excuse _me_ , but I _do_ have the authority…"

"No. You do not. I'm the top dog around here."

"I'll go over your head to the federal district marshal."

"Fine. Go right ahead. The nearest one's in Cheyenne and he's my cousin, so good luck with that. In the meantime, you are hereby enjoined from further trespass on Mister Sherman's property. If you do, he has the legal right to shoot you."

"You can't do that!"

"I just did."

"I'll have your badge!"

"You are most welcome to try, sir. Now get out of my office."

 **Slim'd been silently seething** when he sat down, accepting that Mort wasn't going to tolerate much more mouthing off. The sheriff seldom allowed anger to get the better of him but after a sleepless night he was teetering on the brink of losing it.

Mort let out a groan of relief when the door slammed behind the stuffed shirt. Reaching into a bottom drawer, he pulled out a bottle of rye and two glasses.

"Now… let's you and me talk turkey."

Slim accepted the peace offering and tossed it back, grimacing. "What about?"

"You know damned well what about. Those kids. Not much doubt they're your kin."

"Says you," the rancher growled, holding up his glass for a reload.

" ' _None so blind as those who will not see,'_ " the sheriff quoted, obligingly tipping the bottle.

"Doesn't mean I'm their keeper. What in hell were you thinking, Mort?"

"Someone has to be in charge of 'em until someone else comes along to haul 'em home. Or gives me the authority to put 'em on the eastbound train. I'm thinking, too, that I don't trust that jackass Pinkerton worth a spit. I can see him calling in reinforcements and kidnapping 'em for real just to put a feather in his cap. There'd be more violence and I'm not having it. So I'm afraid you're gonna have to take 'em right back home with you for now."

"You can't be serious," Slim groused. "Where d'you expect me to keep 'em? I've already got those other two under my roof for God knows how long."

"You'll figure out something… or Daisy will."

"But why the ranch… why can't they just stay on at Jackson's?"

Mort picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses. "Because—and I don't know how this got started—there's rumors going around that these kids are your _rich_ relatives. The key word being 'rich'. Sooner or later it's gonna occur to some idiot that one or more of 'em might be worth a mighty fine ransom to their folks back East. Savvy?"

"That's pretty far-fetched, Mort."

"Not as much as you think. Emmett's overheard some loose talk to that effect…"

"Where? Who?"

"Doesn't matter… just some old geezers shootin' the breeze an' repeating gossip over at Grant's mercantile. Look… I don't have the manpower to keep those kids safe in town. You can see that, can't you?"

"Yeah… I can. Don't much like it, though," Slim fumed.

Mort shrugged. "Shouldn't be for too long… couple of days at the most. Rademacher wasn't the only one shootin' off telegrams this morning. I expect I'll be getting some answers this afternoon, you want to hang around that long. But just to be on the safe side I want you outta town with those kids before nightfall."

"I suppose everyone in town and his third cousin twice removed knows about 'em now," Slim griped.

"You suppose right, my friend. And your party didn't exactly slip into town incognito this morning, so everyone knows they're _here_ and not out at the ranch. Let's go to lunch."

 **Abigail's Best Café was still crowded** with midday diners. There were no empty tables but Slim and Mort spotted Adam Niederhauser and Young Doc Whatleigh sharing one so they sidled in that direction and were immediately invited to sit. Before their hind ends hit the seats, Abigail swooped by with two more cups and a carafe of coffee. "Florence'll be right with you."

"Thought you'd be out at my place, Fred," Slim commented. "Didn't Emmett tell you?"

"I was out on a call when he came by. When I got back my receptionist gave me some damnfool story about Daisy falling off a roof in the middle of the night. I knew that couldn't be right. Figured if it were a true emergency you would've come yourself and got me out of bed. What really happened?"

"It's complicated," Slim hedged. "I'd appreciate it if you'd go soon as you can, though."

"If it's not that serious I'm sure my new partner can handle it. He set out a couple hours ago. Surprised you didn't pass him on the way into town."

"What new partner?" Slim frowned. "What're you talking about?"

"Doctor McPheeters from Boston… going into partnership in the practice. Known him for years. We were at medical school together. Not to worry… I'll still be your primary care physician but I know you and Jaimie'll get along just fine."

A waitress arrived to deliver Young Doc's and Adam's plates and take Mort's and Slim's orders.

"Heard about the fracas out at your place last night," the veterinarian ventured. "You didn't really think you could keep it a secret, did you? Hope they didn't make off with my wife's anniversary presents."

"No. I did what you suggested and locked 'em up in the barn. They'll be ready for you tomorrow like I promised."

"That's a relief," Adam answered. "Sorry to hear about Jess, though."

Doctor Whatleigh stopped in mid-chew and swallowed, looking from vet to rancher with furrowed brow. "Doesn't he mean Daisy? What's this about Jess? What the heck's going on?"

"He managed to get himself shot… again," Mort intervened.

"So Daisy's not hurt at all?" Young Doc queried.

"No… not exactly," Slim admitted. "The excitement might've been too much for her, though. She's exhausted and I'd like you to look her over, just the same. And Jess, of course."

"How bad?"

"Put a hole in his side, but not too much damage. Went off the roof and dislocated a shoulder. Hit his head hard enough to knock him out for awhile but he was walking and talking when I left."

Adam blinked. "Really? After all that?"

"We're talking about Jess Harper here," Young Doc harrumphed. "Medical miracle with the constitution of an ox. Man's been ventilated more than a dozen times that I know of… and that's just since he arrived in Laramie."

Adam whistled. "Must be some kinda record."

"Indeed." The doctor pulled a face. "He always manages to pull through… somehow. I'm seriously thinking of writing up a case study for the _New England Journal of Medicine_."

Slim lowered his voice. "Fred… I got two others out there with gunshot wounds… kids. One's in real bad shape. I'd be obliged…"

Young Doc assured him that he had every confidence in the new doctor's capabilities. "If it'd ease your mind, I could ride out there with you soon's Jaimie gets back, but that might be a couple of hours. Depending on whatever complications he's encountered, he might end up laying over for the night."

Mort jumped in again. "It'd be dark before you could get there. Might as well hold off til morning. Slim… you're welcome to bed down at my place."

Slim reminded the sheriff of his earlier edict about being gone from town with the four teenagers before nightfall.

Mort nodded. "On second thought, it'll work just as well to sneak 'em out early in the morning before folks are out and about. Attract less attention that way."

"I have a question," Adam spoke up. "What if the ones who escaped come back to try to rescue the ones you caught?"

Slim shifted uneasily. "Missus Bartlett and I talked about that before we left. We decided that a curtain call wasn't going to happen… not right away, anyway. And they'd have to get past Andy and Orrie _and_ Jess."

"Isn't Jess injured?"

"Not so bad he can't handle a pistol."

 **The diners were beginning to thin out** as Abigail personally delivered Slim's and Mort's meals. Almost done with theirs, the two doctors inquired into dessert options.

"I'm afraid there's none left," the proprietress apologized. "Those company men cleaned us out earlier."

The conversation came to an abrupt halt. Mort and Slim stared at each other.

"Company men?"

Abby sniffed with disdain. "You just missed 'em. Three of 'em. You can always tell… they order the most expensive items on the menu, waste half of it, complain about everything, demand written receipts and never leave good tips."

"Don't tell me… let me guess," Mort said. "Pinkertons."

"How'd you know?" Abby tossed her head with a sour expression. "And talk about rude! Especially the runty one. He was in here yesterday and I came _that_ close to showing him the door. Didn't much care for his two sidekicks, either."

Mort stroked his chin. "I… uh… don't suppose you happened to overhear any of their conversation?"

"No. Sorry. Too noisy and too crowded," Abby shrugged. "Might have better luck tomorrow. Fatso demanded reservations for six at noon, so I guess they're expecting company. I wanted to tell him to get lost but… you know… public relations and all…"

Abigail flounced away, leaving the four men to look at one another in consternation.

"Gentlemen," Sheriff Mort Corey intoned mournfully. "We have a problem."

 **The next thirty minutes were expended** in coming up with ideas on how to avoid unpleasant encounters with Pinkerton agents, assuming reinforcements would be arriving on the morning train. Having invited themselves to the planning party, the two doctors hung around until Slim and Mort had finished their meals, after which the four repaired to the sheriff's office to continue deliberations for several hours more. Although Sheriff Corey wasn't all that keen on cooperation with the giant private investigation company, neither did he wish to create an atmosphere of animosity—agents did have their usefulness, after all, in lightening the load on public law enforcement officials. Jumped-up twits like that Rademacher fellow had to be kept in line, however, and constantly reminded of the limits of their authority.

Stating they needed to get on home before their respective wives came looking for them with rolling pins, the doctors excused themselves. Realizing it was too late to head home, Slim thanked the sheriff for his earlier offer of a bed but allowed as how it might be prudent to stay close to his charges… if Missus Jackson'd have him. Besides which, he'd told the kids he'd come by to check on them.

"Suit yourself, but I'll leave the door unlocked. You know where the sofa is. I'll leave a pillow and blankets in case you change your mind."

"Thanks, Mort."

 **Ambling down a dark, thinly-populated side street** toward the boarding house and passing by the livery stable, now locked up for the night, Slim Sherman was not a happy camper. Every time he congratulated himself on having got his house in order, something came along to disrupt it. The year had been sliding by with relatively little turmoil… and he'd been cautiously optimistic that Jess' formal installation as partner would ensure continuance of that peaceful status. And now this… this unwelcome intrusion which—for once—he couldn't blame on Jess. Angry thoughts smoldered like live coals in the recesses of his mind… especially toward his parents' deceit in concealing such an important part of their earlier lives. Weren't he and Andy entitled to know they had a brother and sisters back East?

In his heart Slim knew that Mort was right—he couldn't deny kinship to these youngsters. In the bright light of morning Slim'd had ample time to examine his nephew's features and could clearly see the resemblance to his own and Matthew Senior's. More so than Andy, actually. Ben had the same brawny build as Slim and his father… or would have when he matured. His eyes and hair were the same color… except that his hair was curly like Pa's had been whereas Slim's was straight and silky. Ben had the same ruddy, round-cheeked face, complete with smile-dimples. And the girl—Ben's twin… same coloring with more refined features as befitting a female but also solidly built. As for those other two nieces… although one was dark-haired and the other copper-topped, neither was what one could describe as delicate or dainty. All four kids had Schirrman… or _Sherman_ … stamped all over them.

Slim stopped dead in his tracks as he was hit with a blinding flash of illumination: that trunk in the attic. Had it been only two weeks ago he'd mentioned to Jess the existence of that trunk full of his mother's journals? He now recalled having seen ribbon-tied bundles of letters from her aunt and uncle and friends back East… and _other_ bundles—ancient, yellowing correspondence tied with string. Were these, then, the letters to Pa from his sister? Ma'd always told him and Andy the trunk was off-limits and, truthfully—aware that it continued only boring old papers—neither of them had ever been tempted to pry. If only, following her demise, he'd had any interest… or taken the time… to read them. Maybe he wouldn't have been broadsided by the knowledge he now possessed. For dang sure he'd be hauling that trunk down from the attic at the first opportunity.

A second gust of insight caught Slim just as he was approaching the front door to Martha Jackson's establishment: the names assigned to all his dead siblings in the family graveyard, with faux markers representing those who'd perished on the westward trek and had been buried along the way. Names that were inscribed in the family Bible which he hadn't examined in years. Names that didn't mean anything to him or Andy but, as was the custom, honored predecessors and siblings—Gustave, Henrietta, Charlotte, Clara, Benjamin, Eleanor and others. And names that replicated those of Matthew Senior's lost children—Christopher, Theodora and Louise.

The anger left him as quickly as it had arisen. Realization blossomed that these four teenagers had only done what he himself might have done… _would_ have done… had the shoe been on the other foot. He would've followed his convictions and—in fact—had done exactly that at exactly the same age by defying his father and going off to war. Difference was, he hadn't had to account to his father on his return because the man was already dead. These kids had living parents… and it was now his responsibility to keep them alive and safe from harm until they could be restored to their families.

 _Why me?_

 _ **Ben's Journal, Friday, July 24:**_ _Midnight, Jackson's Boarding House. We're all in our bedrooms now—the girls are next door but still awake… I can hear them cackling like hens. Uncle Slim is in a room down the hall._

 _Uncle Slim turned up like he said he would although we'd about given up on him. He looked tired and worn out. Missus Martha fussed at him same as she does Orrie and made him go soak in a hot tub. Anthony and Cleopatra were already down and the rest of us almost ready for bed in our dressing gowns and wrappers. Uncle Slim was wearing one of Mister Jackson's nightshirts and a robe when he came out of the bath and looked a little embarrassed when Missus Martha shooed us all out to the verandah, which is what she calls the front porch. She said it was too stuffy inside and we'd be more comfortable sitting outside for a spell. Most all the neighbors were sitting out on their verandahs, too. We could hear them but couldn't see them as it was too dark._

 _Missus Martha lit a couple of miniature lamps full of a sweet-smelling yellow oil she called citronella which she said keeps away mosquitos. The neighbors were using them, too… so all up and down the street were these little spots of light like so many fireflies. I'll have to tell Ma about this. Then she served us ginger snaps and iced tea, which is something else we don't have back home, either, but is really good and refreshing with lots of sugar, slices of lemon and sprigs of mint._

 _Don't know what's happened to turn Uncle Slim around to favor us as he didn't say, but he was nice and soft-spoken, if a little shy at first as the girls were all over him like butterflies. They had their hair down, brushed and shiny, and smelled like a whole garden of flowers. If they were like this all the time they'd have no trouble catching husbands._

 _Uncle Slim sure looks a lot like Pa only taller. Max said I favor Uncle Slim and if I'm lucky I'll grow up to look even more like him. I guess that means she thinks he's very good-looking although she and Tabbie and Eddie are all three smitten with Jess Harper. I guess they didn't think I overheard them talking about him… or that I can't hear through the wall what they're giggling about now. He'd be embarrassed to death if he knew what they're saying. I'm embarrassed just hearing it. Ma'd be calling it barnyard talk and bringing out the soap bars._

 _Anyway, Uncle Slim says we're in danger of being kidnapped by Pinkerton agents so we're going to go back to the ranch and fort up for a while until (a) our folks come for us or (b) something else happens. What else could happen that's even more exciting than what's already happened, I'd like to know? The girls are more interested in seeing Jess Harper than worried about being shot at again. And you can bet I'll be keeping an eagle eye on Maxine. Here I was thinking I'd be having to protect her from him but it's looking more like the other way around. I don't understand women at all. Worse, I just realized I'm starting to write like a girl._


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25—_ **NOT SO TRIVIAL PURSUITS**

 **Following strategies worked out the prior evening,** spiriting four bodies out of town unnoticed proved easier than expected. Kitted out in a slouch hat and overalls, Ben walked over to the livery with Avery at dawn and brought the wagon around to the alley behind the house. Then, with a demurely shawled and sunbonneted Max sitting next to him, he drove right down Main Street in full view of shopkeepers setting up for the day and layabouts waiting for the saloons to open—in the crepuscular light just another undistinguished young farm couple going about their business in a generic spring wagon loaded with odds and ends of lumber, an assortment of boxes and feed bags, and two big croker sacks of potatoes.

Slim had eased out of town fifteen minutes earlier and awaited them a mile or so down the road. The contents of the croker sacks had been cautioned to keep absolutely still—not even a sneeze—until the all clear was given personally by Slim. He'd be keeping a lookout while accompanying the wagon the rest of the way back to the ranch. Tabbie and Eddie would have ample time to pull the burlap bags back over their heads if need be.

 **On Saturday mornings,** Eustace and Eulalie Whatleigh went next door to the Jacksons' so that Young Doc's diminutive wife Pearl could sleep in and he could enjoy breakfast with his friends at Abigail's Best Café. On Sunday mornings, Anthony and Cleopatra Jackson went to the Whatleighs' so that Avery and Orrie could sleep in and Martha could attend early Mass at Our Lady of the Prairie. Doctor Adam Niederhauser often took breakfast at the café as he customarily arose much earlier than his wife.

The sheriff and the veterinarian were already installed at their usual table by the bay window when Young Doc joined them.

"Any new developments?"

"Yes… an' none of 'em good, Fred," Mort replied sourly. "Emmett followed that Pinkerton ass and his two associates to the rail depot. Three more of 'em got off the eight-fifteen. They've all gone over to the Mountain View Hotel to check in and get breakfast."

"And…?"

"Denny Baker dropped by while I was opening up this morning… nosing around to see if I knew why that Rademacher feller wanted to reserve a six-seater surrey and four saddle mounts at his livery stable."

"Why would he need…?" Adam started to ask, then, " _Oh…_ he expects to get his hands on those kids?"

"Yeah... _'oh'_ —six agents plus four captures."

"Surely they don't intend to set siege to Slim's place?" Young Doc was incredulous.

"Where else would they be going?" Mort grunted.

"Can't you stop 'em?"

"Not from riding out there. All I can do is warn 'em to keep to the stage right-of-way."

"Which is fifty feet from the front door, Mort, you know that."

"What do you want me to do about it, Fred?" the sheriff grumbled. "The territorial government holds a thirty-foot-wide easement on the Cheyenne-to-Laramie corridor that bisects the Bartlett, Sherman and Livingston ranches. It's a public thoroughfare. Anyone can travel back and forth on it all day long as long as he doesn't leave the actual road—in which case he'd be trespassing on private property."

"But what about the loop that comes off the main road and runs right by the house?" Adam queried. "I would've thought that's a private drive."

"As long as Slim holds the relay station franchise, that loop is also public access—it's in his contract with Overland."

"So what you're saying is that they can post agents right outside his front door and snatch anyone who steps out onto the road."

"That's about the size of it. Can't believe I was that stupid… sending those kids back out there."

"So they're on their way back now?" the veterinarian questioned.

"Yep. Left about two hours ago. Why?"

"Did Baker say what time the men were coming to get the horses?"

"Sometime around noon's what he told me."

"That gives us plenty of time," Adam grinned.

"Time for… what?"

"Why… to beat 'em there, of course."

 **Breakfast at the ranch** wasn't going all that smoothly, either.

"It's my fault," Jess sighed, reaching for another biscuit. "For not doin' like Slim said…"

"No. It's mine for overriding you," Doctor McPheeters retorted glumly, eyeing the last sausage.

"If anyone's to blame, it's me," Daisy uttered mournfully, poking at her bowl of oatmeal. "I take full responsibility for influencing your decisions."

Facing her across the table and secure in his blamelessness, Mike expressed his opinion while scooping another helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Betcha Jess'll track 'im down in five minutes, right after breakfast. Me an' Andy'll help…"

"Jess is in no shape to do any tracking, young man," Daisy scolded.

"I agree," the doctor said, pointing a fork at Jess. "No outside adventures for you today. Someone else'll have to go after 'im. I mean, how hard can it be find to find one gimpy Indian in a striped nightshirt?"

The side door opened to admit Andy. All heads swiveled in his direction.

"Well? Any sign?" Jess queried, poised to bite into a buttered biscuit.

Andy gulped. "He… uh… he got a horse and a saddle…"

"Sh… er… shoot. We'll still find 'im. Just gonna take longer, is all. Andy, would you mind saddlin' up Traveller for me?"

A babble of objections broke out at once.

"Jess Harper, you are _not_ leaving this house!"

"You're not fit to ride, Jess…"

" 'Fraid I can't do that, Jess… there's… um… a problem."

"I'll do it, I'll do it!" Mike piped up.

Jess held up a paw for silence, eyebrows scrunched together in suspicion, narrowed eyes drilling Andy's worried face.

"Whaddya mean… ya _can't_ … what problem?"

"It was _your_ horse he took," Andy stuttered, "… and _your_ saddle."

Dead silence prevailed for all of a minute while invisible thunderheads gathered and broke at the head of the table. Slowly and deliberately, Jess put down his utensils and got to his feet.

"I'll find 'im… an' then I'm gonna kill 'im." The words were softly spoken but dark with vengeful promise.

 **Full daylight now,** although the sun hadn't yet breached the crest of the eastern hills… As outrider, Slim was maintaining the pace at a steady jog. When he'd finally deemed it safe for the kids to discard their disguises and called a halt, Ben had suggested that perhaps they could put travel time to good conversational use by swapping around positions. Thus, he and Slim were now sharing the driver's seat, with Max's head and shoulders squeezed forward inbetween their waists and the rest of her precariously perched on stacked boxes and bags. Tabbie and Eddie were taking turns on a very confused Alamo.

"Will Missus Cooper be angry, do you think?" Max asked. "I mean about you bringing the four of us back to stay."

"Daisy never gets angry. Well… hardly ever. Perturbed, maybe. Anxious. But she'll find a way to fit you all in. She always does."

"How'd a lady like her come to be living out here?"

"It all began with an orphan and a Japanese sideshow troupe…" By the time Slim's recital had caught up to the present, the tragedy of Mike's origin was offset by the description of the housekeeper selection process.

Ben put forth the next question. "What about Jess? How'd he end up here?"

That, Slim admitted, was a much more complex story. "Just his first day in our lives could fill up a dime novel. And if it hadn't been for Andy, he wouldn't be here today."

"I heard some stuff from Missus Jackson… and I'm wondering if maybe she wasn't exaggerating a little?" Ben let that one dangle.

Slim sighed. "Martha Jackson loves that boy to death… but whatever she had to say about Jess was most likely true. Before I go any further, though, understand this—Jess Harper is the most exasperating character I've ever known… and the best friend I've ever had or ever _will_ have. He's as much a brother to me and Andy as Andy and I are to each other."

Jess' story as presented by his best friend began with the confrontation between ranch owner and trespasser. Although Jess' adoptive family now knew a good deal about his previous existence, Slim accepted that there were many more unexplored layers to the man's past that might never be revealed. And there were between them certain private confidences that would _never_ be shared. As it was, Slim had enough amusing anecdotes to keep his audience enthralled as they continued their journey.

 **Sheriff Corey had argued** to no avail with his breakfast companions. "There's no _we_ in this endeavor, gentlemen. I'm the sheriff here and this is my bailiwick. You tend to your own knitting and I'll tend to mine."

"The devil you say!" Doctor Whatleigh snorted. "I'm riding out there with you… got patients to see."

"Count me in, too," Doctor Niederhauser agreed adamantly. "I was planning on going out there anyway… got two horses to pick up."

Mort huffed and puffed. "I can't allow you to go in harm's way. For one thing, your wives would hunt me down like a dog if anything happened to either one of you…"

"Nothing's going to happen… and the more witnesses, the better," Young Doc declaimed. "The Pinkertons won't risk an unfavorable public incident. They can't squat in the road forever. Eventually they'll have to back down. Come along, Adam… we'll get there faster on horseback. You can take one of mine… got two stabled over at Jackson's."

Mort rolled his eyes, acceding defeat. "Get Orrie to saddle mine while you're at it. I'll be there in a few minutes. Got to run by the jail first and let Emmett know."

Out on the boardwalk, the two doctors strode purposefully toward the livery stable while the sheriff peeled off in the other direction, muttering imprecations under his breath. By the time he reached the office he'd worked himself into a towering snit, only to find his deputy lounging back in the swivel chair, reading the newspaper.

"Get your damned ass outta my chair!" Mort shouted. "Why aren't you out making the rounds?"

Emmett carefully refolded the paper and slowly removed his boots from the top of the desk. "Already did."

"Then do 'em again!"

"Couldn't leave 'til you got back. Got two fish in the drunk tank."

"Dammitall! The saloons've only been opened an hour… who could possibly be that drunk this early in the day?"

"The usual suspects… Parson Hawks and Judge Cade."

A shabby apparition with a wildly rolling eye lurched out of the cell block, emitting a wave of alcoholic fumes. "You called, sherff?"

"Get back in your cell and stay there 'til you sober up, Parson," Mort yelled.

"No breakfuss?" the drunk sloppily inquired, helping himself to a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove.

The sheriff clenched his fists heavenward. "I do not need this… not today!" Giving his laconic underling the hairy eyeball, Mort instructed Emmett to lock the cell door behind the two inebriates. Normally they didn't bother—the parson considered jail his second home while the judge would likely remain legless well into the afternoon. Then they'd meekly let themselves out when it was time for the evening binge. When Emmett asked why, Mort snapped at him.

"I'm going out to Sherman's place to try and stop war breaking out between them and those damned Pinkertons. I need you free to uphold the peace here."

Mort went on to explain about the two doctors horning in on the mission. Emmett lifted an eyebrow with a crooked grin.

"Looks like I'm gonna miss out on a good showdown, 'specially with a priest and a nun added to the posse."

"Say what?"

"Father Flynn came by while you were at Abigail's… him and that head nun from out at the convent… they're goin' out there, too." Emmett thought the bossman was going to have a heart attack on the spot—his face was beet red, his mouth gaping open and closed like a goldfish.

"What in heaven's name business they got with Slim?" Mort croaked when he finally got his wind back.

Emmett proceeded to explain that the priest had been at the undertaker's, making arrangements for a late parishioner, when the middle Bartlett boy had delivered the two bodies—both decedents adorned with Roman devotional medals. Even though Jerry'd had strict instructions about keeping his mouth shut, he couldn't resist the commanding presence of a man of the cloth and had blabbed everything about the two raids, the two injured men at Sherman's ranch and the three girls his mother had fetched home with her. The good padre had reasoned that where there were two of the faithful in peril, there was a fair possibility of others to be saved. And because females were involved, he'd called in his associate from the Dominican convent attached to Our Lady of the Prairie.

"They just stopped by to let you know they were on their way."

Sheriff Morton Ames Corey cussed for a solid five minutes while he buckled on his gunbelt, unlocked the gun cabinet to select a rifle, and stuffed his jacket pockets with ammo. Deputy Sheriff Emmett Ryker was mightily impressed with his superior's vocal stamina and vocabulary range.

 **Meanwhile… on the stage road…** Slim was embellishing his narrative of Jess' adventures. At one point he had to pull off to the side as the eastbound ten o'clock stage thundered by… leaving the four of them coated in dust. Ten minutes later the spring wagon splashed over the creek around the bend from the ranch house. Easing by the parked stage and pulling up by the corral fence, Slim noted that once again Luke Perry was subbing for Mose. As tall and sturdily built as Slim himself, the personable Alabamian had curly ginger hair and an ingratiating crooked smile.

With apologies to his passengers, Slim excused himself to help change out the team. As he and Luke unhooked the lead pair, the latter cocked his head at the individuals climbing down from the wagon—three of them obviously females. "New hires?"

"Not exactly," Slim grunted. "Relatives visiting from back east."

Andy and Orrie had the four replacements prepped and ready to go, so the exchange went quickly. Slim noted that his brother was looking furtive. No other word for it. Something was up but Slim didn't have time to ask.

"Got time for pie and coffee?"

"Already been. Wanted to say howdy to Jess but he ain't..."

At that moment one of the wheel horses went balky on them, diverting Slim's attention from the other's unfinished statement. With the fresh team hooked up, Luke asked Andy to let the passengers know it was time to reboard. Presently two men and two women emerged from the ranch house. With the passengers stowed away, the stage boiled away.

Walking back to the wagon, Slim raised a hand to Daisy watching from the threshold. Even at a distance he could see she was unhappy about something—but it couldn't be about the return of the kids… it'd already been agreed they were coming back. Something was very wrong.

Max was standing in the wagon bed, pulling valises from their hiding places under a pile of empty burlap sacks and handing them down to Ben.

"You all go on inside and shake off some of that dust," Slim said, reaching up to assist Max's descent as she was encumbered by the long skirts. "I have to put up the horses."

The girls turned toward the house but Ben demurred. "I'll help. Need to stretch my legs anyway."

 **Adding the wagon team** to the coach horses already being rubbed down in the corral, Slim couldn't help but notice Andy was avoiding looking him in the eye. Before he could pick up a currycomb, though, Orrie intercepted him.

"Sir, you're needed inside. I'll see to these."

"Thanks, Orrie…"

"How many times a day does the stage come through?" Ben asked as he and Slim walked to the house.

"Twice. Eastbound to Cheyenne at ten in the morning and westbound to Laramie at four in the afternoon, give or take. No runs on Sunday."

"Must be difficult, scheduling ranch maintenance around it."

"Not too hard… except at spring and fall roundup. I… we… have to hire temporary hands then."

"Roundup? You have cattle?" Ben looked around curiously. There wasn't a cow in sight. "How many?"

Slim told him and Ben whistled, wide-eyed. "Where are they?"

"Summer pasture right now, and open range. We bring 'em in closer to home in winter."

"I've read about the big drives up from Texas… thousands of cattle on the move. Have you ever been on one?"

"Yeah… a long time ago. It was the experience of a lifetime but I wouldn't want to do it again."

"What about wild horses… the mustangs… do you round those up also?"

"No. All our working stock are ranch-bred. Jess'd love to go chasing after horses but we've never had the time. The cattle are more important."

"I was hoping I'd get to see some real cowboys… and wild horses." Ben sounded wistful. "I think I'd like living here… almost wish I didn't have to go back. Farming is dead boring in comparison. Maybe after I've graduated college…"

At the foot of the porch steps, Slim halted, putting a hand to his nephew's shoulder.

"Be thankful you have a family and a farm to go home to, Ben. There's no romance in the way we live. It isn't like what you read in books. Mostly it's hard work and uncertainty… and more drudgery and worry than you can possibly imagine."

"Why'd Grandpa and… well, I guess she's our step-grandmother…come out here then? Why not just stay in South Carolina?"

Slim grinned. "I reckon it's because the male of the species is born with more of a sense of adventure than common sense."

"And the female of the species…?"

"Ma always said women were designed to let their hearts overrule their minds. She allowed it was intentional on the Creator's part, otherwise no sane female would ever put her welfare in a man's hands."

 **Stepping into the parlor,** Slim was struck by the normalcy of the scene… and the absence of activity other than Daisy clearing off the table with a great deal more clatter than she normally employed. Her lips were compressed in a thin line of disapproval and her hair more untidy than usual. The fainting couch and sofa were both unoccupied and there was no sign of Jess. Premonition settled on Slim's shoulders like a wet woolen blanket. He turned to the rack where Jess' hat should have been. No hat in evidence.

Turning her back, Daisy marched back into the kitchen without so much as a 'hello'. Slim followed. Mike was standing on a stool at the sink, washing dishes. The girls must've shot straight through to the washroom.

"Okay… what gives?" Fighting to control his anxiety, Slim came up behind her and turned her around to face him. This close, he could see she'd been crying. "Where's Jess?"

His question unleashed a fresh torrent of tears. "If only you'd come home last night… this wouldn't have happened!"

Slim gently guided Daisy to a chair at the kitchen table, offering her his handkerchief. "What _did_ happen? Is Jess okay?"

Amidst bouts of snuffling, hand-wringing, eye-mopping and nose-blowing, Slim gradually teased out the tale of escape and pursuit.

The night before, Daisy and Mike had retired to their respective bedrooms. Jess took first watch while the visiting doctor and Andy napped in the back bedroom. Andy drew the straw for second watch. When Doc Jaimie came in to relieve him at three in the morning, Andy was sound asleep in a rocker and Coyote was gone… vanished without a whisper. Doc Jaimie hadn't seen any benefit in rousing the household as there was nothing to be done in the dark anyway, so he'd gone back to bed.

Early-rising Daisy'd discovered the missing patient and had the same reaction—no sense raising an alarm until dawn. In fact, why bother at all? There wasn't anyone available to go after the wounded prisoner so she might as well get breakfast on the stove. Jess would find out soon enough and a good hot breakfast would serve to dampen any temper.

Jess'd been surprisingly laid back when apprised of the situation. He told Daisy not to fret—the Indian wouldn't get far on that bum leg—and asked Andy to have a quick look around outside. Then he'd nonchalantly plopped himself down at the table with a cup of coffee…

"Quit beating around the bush, Daisy… _where is he?_ " Slim's patience was wearing thin, especially as he suspicioned he already knew the answer. "For that matter, where's that doctor?"

"You've got to go after them, Slim," Daisy implored.

"For God's sake, Daisy… _WHERE DID THEY GO?!"_ Slim couldn't help raising his voice.

Andy rushed in just then, pushing past the cousins to stand behind Daisy with his hands on her shoulders.

"Don't yell at her… this is my fault, not hers. I should've stayed awake…"

"I'm not…" Slim got hold of himself. "I'm sorry, Daisy… I just need to know what happened."

At this point Andy's academy-acquired enunciation failed him. "Coyote took Traveller, Slim… an' Jess' saddle. You know how Jess is… ain't no stoppin' him when he's fightin' mad an' got the bit in his teeth. Didn't even finish his breakfast, that's how mad he was. Says he's gonna kill 'im."

"Didn't that doctor try to stop him?"

"He tried talkin' him outta goin' but since he couldn't, he figured he'd better ride along."

"How long ago did they leave?"

"About two hours… we goin' after 'em?"

Slim shook his head, his face grim. "Bigger problems coming our way, Andy. We can't leave the ranch unprotected."

 _ **Ben's Journal, Saturday, July 25:**_ _Well… here we are again at the old ranch house and I'm confused. First we couldn't stay here because there wasn't any room… and now we're back and there still isn't any room. The sheriff said we had to go back to town because police were looking for us… and then we had to sneak out of town because they are. Are Pinkertons real coppers or not? And Slim said something about our maybe being kidnapped for ransom? Who'd be dumb enough to do that? Our folks aren't rich._

 _Jess and some doctor are out hunting down one of the two horse thieves who got caught the other night. He (the Indian who got shot in the leg) escaped right out from under their noses, wearing nothing but a nightshirt. (I can't get that image out of my head). I guess Missus Jackson wasn't kidding when she said Jess was a dangerous man. Orrie calls him a loose cannon. He's planning to kill that Indian when they catch him again because he stole Jess' favorite horse. The girls and I couldn't help but hear everything about what happened last night because we were standing right there in the parlor._

 _Missus Cooper wants Slim to go after them… I guess because Jess was shot and isn't supposed to be riding? Slim says he and Andy can't leave the ranch because there are bad people coming after us._

 _Slim and Andy are doing something out behind the barn. Missus Cooper and Max are changing bandages on Rusty, the other wounded horse thief, who's been moved to Slim and Jess' bedroom. Tabbie and Eddie are in the kitchen fixing us something for lunch. Tabbie's a pretty good cook. Eddie not so much._

 _Slim handed me a loaded shotgun and told me to sit out here on the front porch and keep a watch out for suspicious strangers. As Pa used to say, I don't know whether to shit or go blind. How am I supposed to distinguish a suspicious stranger from a regular one? All these folks look scary to me. Does he mean for me to scare them off by shooting over their heads… or am I supposed to actually_ _shoot_ _them?_

 _Wonder how those three girl horse thieves are doing, down the road at the neighbor's place? My arm and shoulder are itching like crazy. Missus Cooper and Missus Jackson both warned me not to pick the scabs off. Eddie picked the scab off her ear and it bled a lot._

 _Note: Andy said for us to please not call him 'uncle' because he's actually younger than us but a little older than Eddie and it sounds stupid. Slim said for us to please not him call him uncle, either, because it makes him feel old._

 _Will get back to this later. Mike's come out and it looks like he wants to talk. I don't mind. I like kids and they know a lot more than grownups think they do. Good opportunity to do a little information mining._


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26—_ **A WATCHED PLOT NEVER BOILS**

 **Earlier, Father Flynn** of Our Lady of the Prairie and Mother Superior Bartholomew of the Sisters of the Divine Illumination reined their mounts to the verge, well out of the path of the onrushing stagecoach and its comet trail of dust.

"Better wait a few minutes 'til it settles, Sean," the nun suggested.

"Aye, Moira," the priest agreed. In public or mixed company they maintained religious formality in address. But when it was just the two of them, rules could be relaxed.

"Shall I press on to the Shermans' whilst you're callin' on the Bartletts?" Although the priest had forsaken his ubiquitous and unseasonably warm cassock for this particular trip, his faded black cotton shirt and dog collar advertised his calling. Locks of curly red hair going gray straggled from under his domed black galero.

"We'd probably do better presenting a united front." The nun, too, was traveling semi-incognito—plain button-front blouse tucked into a knee-length divided riding skirt over riding boots. Completing the unfashionable potato brown ensemble was an unadorned wide-brim straw hat over a shoulder-length headdress which was little more than a scarf.

Eli Putnam—city-contracted undertaker to the impoverished and unknown—would've summoned Father Flynn anyway had not that worthy already been present in his establishment when, yesterday, the two unidentified bodies were delivered by Jerry Bartlett. Father Flynn ministered to the poor, the unwanted, the misfits and the societal rejects of Laramie. More often than not, he was called upon to preside over interments in the township's potter's field, whether or not the decedents were followers of the true faith or complete unknowns. The presence of religious medals around the necks of the deceased was flimsy evidence of preference, but enough that the priest determined the boys were deserving of post-mortem blessings and absolution… and burial in the Catholic cemetery. After wheedling from young Bartlett the story of the raids and leaving the funeral parlor with the young bandits' disposition arranged, Father Flynn hastened back to the rectory for a conference with Mother Superior Bartholomew, his counterpart from the convent next door. It was decided that the detainees on both ranches were in dire need of spiritual reinforcement and guidance. A mission was hatched.

"Poor wee lads… cut down so young," Father Sean mourned, cutting loose with a hearty sneeze and urging his mule Goliath into motion once more. "They had no business runnin' with an outlaw gang at that age. If only someone had reached out…"

"You can't save 'em all. We do the best we can with whatever resources are entrusted to us," Mother Moira responded, giving Gaius Marius a heel in the ribs. "Even if it comes in the form of a none too bright farmboy who can't keep his piehole shut."

"You'll be understandin' there's no guarantee any of the other young people involved are Catholic as well?" Father Sean reminded his companion.

"Not my department, Sean. We have plenty of room for children of all faiths now that the dorms and classrooms are operational. And I just received word the motherhouse is sending four new sisters… two nurses and two teachers."

The priest cleared his throat ostentatiously. "An' you're also understandin' one of the young ladies is in the family way?"

"We're prepared to deal with that situation."

"Some of the parishioners are likely to take exception…"

"They can like it or lump it," the nun retorted crisply. They had arrived at the cutoff to the Bartlett's spread. "Here first, or Sherman's?"

"Oh… Sherman's, I should think. If we're fortunate there might be some pie left…"

 **Moving at a steady jog,** the intercept squad was steadily catching up to the earlier travelers. Adam Niederhauser wasn't a big man and he bobbed like a monkey atop his borrowed mare, of the same lineage as Fred Whatleigh's gelding—seventeen-hand jet black Thoroughbred-Percheron behemoths. Young Doc remarked that the veterinarian's ride, Tar Baby, used to belong to his older sister Sally, who'd married a Hawaiian and subsequently moved to the islands. In his mind's eye Doc Adam tried and failed to visualize a female of such Amazonian proportions that she required a saddle horse robust enough to draw a beer wagon.

Mort Corey's fifteen-hand Quarterhorse struggled to keep up, occasionally breaking into a lope to close the distance. Every few miles the sheriff called for a breather—not so much for himself as for his shorter-legged mount, and once to allow the stagecoach to pass. This also provided opportunities to reiterate that the doctors' presence was being tolerated as a courtesy, as observers only. There was to be absolutely no discharge of firearms on their part.

"We're unarmed, Mort," Young Doc reminded the lawman. "How about rocks? Can we throw rocks?"

"No rocks. In fact, when we get there, I want you boys to get in the house and stay there."

"What I don't understand," the veterinarian began, "… is how much authority do these people really have? I mean… I thought all they did was investigate… find people and recover stolen property?"

"Wish I could give you a straight answer, Adam. Truth is, ever since they contracted out to the federal Justice Department they've been encroaching more and more on legitimate law enforcement territory. Useta be the worst they could do was make a citizen's arrest, but now they got their own little private army going… and the feds support 'em when it suits their purpose."

"What about due process and civil rights?"

"Pinkertons don't give a damn. Don't have to." Sheriff Corey hocked a loogie off to the side to underscore his disgust with the situation. "We'd better get a move on…"

 **Several miles back,** the Pinkerton entourage rolled along—two outriders ahead of the surrey and two behind… all filmed by a fine coating of road dust churned up by the morning stage. Lead Agent Rademacher was in an equally filthy and not entirely rational frame of mind. His piles were giving him grief and his hatband was too tight. The haberdasher hadn't been able to accommodate his hat size when he'd sought to replace the bowler ruined by that demented ranchhand. When he'd outlined his plan over breakfast at the Mountain View hotel, none of his subordinates had seemed too eager to participate. He'd had to remind them, somewhat forcefully, that—as ranking officer—his orders were not to be questioned.

Trapped next to Rademacher and glumly wishing he were elsewhere, Agent Clouseau had the reins. The ongoing litany of complaints issued in a loud and obnoxious whine was getting on his last nerve and causing him to rethink his career choice. Clouseau was a desk jockey, not a field agent… but an ill-conceived dalliance with the daughter of his immediate superior in New Orleans had occasioned a relocation from his cushy post to the backwaters of Nebraska.

Agents Drebin and Monk had fallen far enough behind to converse in private.

"I don't like this," Monk stated. "I read the brief. All we're supposed to do is find those kids… not kidnap 'em. Are we even sure they're out here?"

"Well… Magnum tailed that rancher yesterday," Drebin responded, "but they'd already vamoosed by the time we raided the livery and the boarding house this morning. You know that… you were there. Where else could they've gone?"

Monk shook his head. "It was a bad idea to rough up those three men and tie them up while we searched the premises. Wouldn't have taken 'em long to get loose."

"And do what? Go crying to the sheriff?" Drebin shot back. "You worry too much. Nobody cares if a couple of darkies get slapped around a little."

Agents Magnum and Tracy were far enough ahead of the surrey that they, too, couldn't be overheard.

"This is the dumbest assignment ever," Tracy griped. "Damned if I'm gonna sit out in the middle of the road all day in the hot sun, waiting for that hick farmer to get scared enough send those kids out."

"And you're the dumbest agent ever if you believe these ranchers are ignorant pushovers," Magnum observed. "This must be your first time out west."

"Yeah, but so what? A farmer's a farmer no matter where he's grubbin' dirt, right?" Tracy'd never been farther west than New Jersey.

High plains-born and bred Magnum refrained from enlightening the man.

 **Some miles to the east of the ranch,** Jess and Jaimie'd departed from the road long before the stage tore through. Jess'd held up fairly well as long as they were traversing flat surfaces, but the trail they were now following threaded upwards towards the Vedauwoo. Their mounts were obliged to leap, lurch and side-step frequently as they negotiated rocky terrain—difficult enough for a rider in good physical condition to maintain his seat, painfully jolting for a man recently wounded _and_ hampered by a mild concussion. Gauging his companion's increasing distress, the doctor called a rest break… judiciously blaming the need on himself.

"Been a while since I've been trail riding. My butt's not used to it," Jaimie lied convincingly.

Jess wasn't doing such a great job of concealing his relief, finding a patch of grass on which to stretch out. "Need to rest my back for a few minutes. Don't let me fall asleep."

An hour later Jaimie carefully nudged Jess' boot and called his name, sensing without being told that this was one individual you didn't want to startle—asleep _or_ awake.

Jess sat up and yawned, scrubbing at his face. "How long was I out?"

"Not long. Hungry? Missus Cooper threw some grub together for us."

Other than the months on the wagon train that'd brought him and his physician father out west, Jaimie hadn't spent his formative years in rural settings. From age thirteen until going back east to attend medical school, he'd lived in the relatively urban environs of Sacramento where the senior McPheeters had established his practice at the conclusion of their journey. Jaimie was a competent enough rider but lacked a drifter's survival skills in the open. Riding behind Jess, he was intrigued by the other's ability to decode one set of tracks from all the others, not to mention keeping one eye on the ground and the other on the path ahead. When Jess pulled up for a moment to study something, Jaimie finally asked...

"How do you know we're going the right way?"

"Easy," Jess grinned. "See… there's where a bunch a riders came down a coupla days ago… an' there's where one rider went up sometime this mornin'."

The trail itself was narrow and gravel-strewn, with only intermittent thin patches of sandy soil sporting faint hoofprints.

"I'll have to take your word for it. Just don't lose me. I'd never find my way back."

"Long's you stick with Ranger, he'll carry you straight back to the homeplace… like a homin' pigeon."

Jaimie'd lost track of time and distance when Jess halted abruptly at a cleft between two enormous granite outcroppings. He dismounted to examine the ground more closely then lifted his head to examine what appeared to be a short roofless tunnel opening to a green valley at the other end.

"Is it safe?" Even Jaimie recognized the ambush potential.

"Yeah. That's where he _was_ … only a coupla hours ago," Jess finally muttered cryptically. "Ain't there now. One set a new tracks goin' in, two different horses comin' out."

"Two? You sure about that?"

"Yep. We're goin' in anyway."

 **Back at the ranch…** Daisy came outside the kitchen door to ring the triangle announcing lunch. The bottomless pit that was Mike deserted his new 'cousin' and dashed inside. Ben got to his feet before remembering he should probably remain at his post until relieved. Instead of retreating back into the kitchen, Daisy came up onto the porch.

"I'm sure Slim didn't intend for you to stand guard indefinitely… without lunch or any… um… break." Her face pinked up a bit. "Surely by now…"

"Yes, m'am… but… he's expecting trouble and I don't want to let him down."

"Oh pshaw! Give me that gun. I'll hold the fort while you run out back. Wash your hands on the way back—the washstand's right by the side door. One of the girls'll bring you out something to eat."

Ben was about to hand over the shotgun when two riders appeared around the bend and headed straight for the front porch. One of them was a great hulk in black on a larger-than-life oatmeal-colored mule splotched with brown—by far the biggest mule Ben'd ever seen in his life. The second rider was a normal-size woman on a normal-size mule the same shade as her severe attire. If this pair didn't qualify as strange, nothing did. Belatedly, he fumbled the shotgun into aiming position, more or less.

"Halt… or… er… I'll shoot!" he challenged, adding, "Who… um… goes there?"

Daisy looked at him in amusement, then at the arrivals. A suppressed giggle escaped as she put a hand on the barrel and pushed it aside. The muleteers tried not laugh as they proceeded to dismount.

"What's so funny?" Ben griped. "I'm just doing what Slim said… watching out for strangers."

"Father Flynn and Mother Superior Bartholomew are friends of ours, Ben."

Divested of their passengers, both mules chose that moment to salute their mule friends in the front pasture. The chorus of heehawed greetings that ensued brought a grinning Andy around the side of the house at a trot. Though nominally Presbyterian and not regular churchgoers since their mother passed, both Shermans held Father Sean in high regard. The head of the convent was a valued family friend as well. The floorboards groaned ominously as the outsized priest followed the nun up the steps and offered his paw to Ben.

"You would be the nephew we've been hearin' of…"

Daisy made the introductions and ushered the visitors indoors, forgetting about Ben's needs. "We're about sit down to lunch. You're welcome to join us, of course."

Andy noticed Ben fidgeting. "Go on… Slim sent me to take over, anyway."

"Is this really necessary… standing guard, I mean?"

"He thinks so. Better eat while you can. We might be in for a long afternoon."

"D'ya think there'll be more shooting?" The prospect was both thrilling and chilling to an Eastern tenderfoot.

"Maybe. If Jess were here, probably."

"Does this happen a lot?"

"Depends on what you call 'a lot'. Don't folks ever settle differences with guns where you come from?"

"Actually, no… not that I can recall. Usually the only time people get shot is accidentally, while hunting."

Despite his pressing need to pee, Ben seized the chance to posit a question which—as he'd already been advised by Orrie—was one of those indelicate ones that shouldn't be asked of another man.

"Have you… um… ever shot anyone?"

Andy's face went blank and Ben imagined he saw a shadow pass over it.

"Yes." A single terse syllable in a strangely soft and husky voice.

"By accident?"

"No."

For a minute Ben thought that would be the end of it, but Andy continued.

"I was twelve the first time. We were being attacked by Indians and I was scared out of my mind. I wounded one but he got away."

"The _first_ time…?" Ben prompted.

"The second time, I was fourteen. I was certain he'd just killed my brother and Jess… so I shot him. In the heart."

Ben's mouth went dry. Goosebumps erupted on his arms. "Did it… does it ever bother you… having killed a man? No regrets?"

Andy seemed to snap out of whatever fog had enveloped him. "No. None. Didn't think twice about it then, hardly ever think about it these days."

"Would you do it again… like today… if you had to?"

Andy blinked, taking charge of the shotgun. "I live in a different world these days, Ben… more like yours, I expect. But when I'm home… yes, of course. I'll do whatever's needed to protect myself and my family. You'd better hurry out back before you wet yourself."

 **The other end of the roofless tunnel** opened into a lovely little valley, almost a perfect oval… with copses of aspens, acres of nutrient-rich meadow grass and a clear creek runnelling over a wide bed of rounded pebbles. The two riders paused to take in the landscape and check for signs of human habitation.

"Looks like nobody's home," Jaimie commented.

"Been here, though." Jess pointed toward a barely visible path where downtrodden grass had halfway sprung back up. It led toward a sandstone overhang—an obvious attraction for campers seeking shelter. The grass was thinner and shorter closer to the rock wall enclosing the canyon, and the ground under the ledge was composed of fine dry sand. Whoever'd been here had been careful to clean up after themselves. There was no litter to be seen anywhere. In a large rock-circled firepit there remained only water-doused coals and burned fragments of trash.

There were many footprints in the sand. At the back of the overhang reposed two pack saddles and a stack of durable goods which, for whatever reason, the campers had chosen to abandon. As Jess stalked toward it, he stopped so suddenly Jaimie plowed into his back.

"What? What're you looking at?"

Next to the stack was a stock saddle… with a blue-and-white striped nightshirt neatly folded on its seat. From the gullet protruded a tube of paper which Jess gingerly plucked out and unrolled. Jaimie read over his shoulder.

" _Jess… I have a feeling you will be the one finding this. My thanks to you and Mister Sherman for the loan of your very fine horse. I was tempted to keep him and would have had he not been so easy to track. As for the saddle, my apologies for the bloodstains on the fender. However, as it seems to be decorated with several other older ones, I expect this is not a major issue. I left the horse grazing at the far end of the canyon this morning, along with two mules which I regret to advise are stolen. Perhaps you might attempt to return them to their rightful owners. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you. Under other circumstances we might have become friends. Regards, Mikasi aka Coyote."_

"If that don't beat all," Jess mumbled, turning to the doctor. "Now whadda I do?"

Jaimie wanted to laugh but it was plain to see his companion was in the throes of a dilemma. He slapped on his serious doctor face.

"Well now… I'd say, first, let's go fetch your horse and those mules, then come back for the saddle and anything else worth carrying back to the ranch. Doubt anyone's coming back for it."

Traveller raised his head and whickered greetings at the approach of his barn mates, Jess' and Slim's remounts Ranger and Scout. Neither he nor the mules made any objections to having loops dropped over their heads and came along quietly. Back at the campsite, Jess reckoned the pack saddles were in decent enough shape to keep. Inspection of the stack of goods yielded several carryalls of clothing and personal items that no doubt belonged to the captured raiders. Jess carried on a running commentary as he walked around studying the ground.

"Someone else was here, waitin' on 'im… a kid or a woman, likely. An' two horses. Travelin' light an' fast so took only what they needed."

"You can tell all this by looking at the ground?"

"The other night… when we were hit… one got away on the road with another horse that lost its rider. Betcha he… or maybe she… came back here to hole up for a coupla days to see who else might show up. Two ran away on foot but it don't look like they came back this way."

"I see. What does he mean by 'easy to track'?"

"Oh… _that…_ " Jess had the good grace to look sheepish. "Trav got 'im a little quarter crack an' I didn't want it gettin' any worse, so Orrie Jackson fit him with a egg-bar shoe… see." He made the horse pick up his foot so Jaimie could see the corrective shoe, then pointed to a clear print in the sand. "That's why I had 'im on stall rest. Worried if Coyote'd rode 'im hard it mighta opened up that crack. But he didn't so that's okay."

"And here I was thinking you're part bloodhound… tracking through scent or something," Jaimie snorted.

With the mules loaded and the stock saddle fastened on top of a pack saddle, they were ready to move out. Jess had remounted Scout and was just sitting there, looking conflicted.

"Is it written in stone you absolutely positively have to kill that Indian?" Jaimie ventured. "Missus Cooper said you two had a nice confab going there for a while. She thought you kinda liked him and was maybe considering putting in a good word…"

"I did… I was…" Jess replied uncertainly. "But then he went and stole my horse, dammit… _an'_ my saddle."

"Which you now have back in good order. And anyway, it wasn't personal. He couldn't have known that was _your_ horse… probably just picked the best one in the barn."

"Yeah… probably."

"Can't you let it go this one time?"

Jess finally agreed that he could and would. Privately, he was relieved. And now that the emergency was over, he was over his mad and ready to go home.

 _ **Ben's Journal, Saturday, July 25:**_ _Two entries on one day. Ma'd be proud. Well, I'm back out here on the porch and so far this isn't as interesting an afternoon as Andy predicted._

 _The first 'strangers' to get here were a Catholic priest and a nun. The priest was riding a gigantic mule named Goliath, bigger than any of our Belgians at home. The nun's mule (regular-size) is called Gaius Marius, which she says is an inside joke about some Roman general. I don't get it. I'm not sure she's a real nun. Doesn't look like any one I've ever seen. The priest is here to look after Rusty, in case he dies, I guess. After talking with Slim, Father Sean and Sister Moira (the priest said to call them that) decided to stick around and help out. Doing what I have no idea. Praying us out of trouble?_

 _Next came Sheriff Corey and two other men—another doctor and a veterinarian on a pair of blacks that put me in mind of Judge Hoffman's Friesian carriage horses back home, only_ _much_ _bigger. Their names are Young Doc and Doc Adam (the doctors, not the horses—no one has explained their names, either). Young Doc and Father Sean are HUGE men. They have to duck coming through doorways._

 _Now that another real doctor's taken over tending to Rusty, Missus Cooper is back in the kitchen keeping Tabbie and Eddie hopping. Somehow they're managing to keep the food coming. Mom and the aunties would be having conniptions if that many unexpected guests showed up right at mealtime._

 _Slim and Mike are in the barn with Sheriff Corey and Doc Adam, who is a veterinarian, looking over some mares he's buying for his wife (according to Andy). Max volunteered to help Andy catch up the relay team for the afternoon stage, so they're across the road in the big pasture right now. I'd rather be doing that but Missus Cooper just came out and asked if I'd mind peeling a mess of potatoes for supper since I'm just sitting here. Might as well. Nothing else happening._


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27—_ **OURS ARE BIGGER THAN THEIRS**

 **The canopied six-passenger surrey** rolled to a stop right in the middle of the loop in front of the ranch house.

"This is it," Lead Agent Rademacher announced unnecessarily, standing up to address his cadre and mashing his new bowler against the canopy. "Assume your posts, men." He sat back down, scowling as he removed his chapeau to reshape the crown before jamming it back on.

Agent Clouseau cleared his throat. "Sir, a suggestion, if I may…"

"You may not."

"But sir… we're in the…"

"I said shut up."

"Yes, sir." Clouseau sighed, consulting his pocketwatch. Two o'clock. He wasn't exactly sure when the afternoon stage was due but had a premonition there'd be trouble when the driver found the road blocked.

Agents Monk and Drebin were deployed to the east and west as far as they could go on the road and still be within visual range of the house. Agents Magnum and Tracy were to remain with the surrey, surveilling the property frontage to vet anyone leaving the house and attempting to depart the premises on foot or on horseback.

The lead agent directed his next order at the only other person in sight—a young man seated on the front porch.

"You there… tell Mister Sherman that Agent Rademacher needs to see him. Right now."

Ben had no trouble identifying the stuffed shirt with the big mouth. A yeasty ball of Sherman/Schirrman stubbornness lodged in his throat. It occurred to him that this man didn't know him by sight. An idea blossomed. Orrie Jackson wasn't the only one who could play stupid. He slowly stood with the shotgun cradled in his arms.

"We got two mister Shermans, mister. Which one you be wantin'?"

"Don't get smart with me, son," the other man barked. "I want the boss of this outfit, on the double."

"Mister Slim's kinda busy right now, mister. He don't like to be bothered when he's busy."

"Why, you impertinent pup!"

The exchange was loud enough to attract the attention of those in the barn. Slim emerged first, chivvying Mike toward the side kitchen door, followed by the sheriff and the veterinarian.

"I thought I made my position clear yesterday," Slim stated flatly, glad he'd thought to don his gunbelt before going out to the barn. "You and your goons get off my property. Now."

Rademacher folded his arms with a self-satisfied smirk. "This is a public thoroughfare. We don't have to leave and you can't make us."

The muscles in the rancher's cheeks were twitching overtime. So were the fingers of his gun hand. "True enough… but you don't know where the easement ends and I do. Cross that line and you'll no longer be _public_. We tend to shoot trespassers around here."

Magnum and Tracy, sitting side by side on their horses, exchanged nervous glances. They took extra hitches in their reins to ensure their skittish mounts wouldn't accidentally cross that invisible line… which might be fifteen feet away if they were actually dead center in the road… or only five feet if they weren't.

"You know what we're here for, Sherman. Send out those young people or there'll be consequences," the man threatened.

"What sort of consequences might those be?" Slim queried with false pleasantry.

"I have authorization to take custody of those children and see that they're returned to their families." Rademacher reached into a coat pocket and extracted several Western Union flimsies. "Sheriff Corey… take a look at these. May I remind you that you're bound by law to render assistance?"

The sheriff cut his eyes at his friend and stepped forward to receive the telegrams. Briefly perusing them, he handed them over to Slim, whose expression didn't change even as his face suffused with red. One was an affidavit from some eastern attorney stating that the Pinkerton National Detective Agency had been formally retained to locate the missing youngsters. The second was a demand for cooperation from the agency's regional supervisor in Cheyenne, promising to pursue the matter with Governor Campbell. The third was a suggestion by Overland's head office that management would not look kindly on any incident that might incite Pinkerton to boycott the stage line.

 **With their backs to the surrey** and their voices down, there was no way they could be overheard.

"So I'm screwed, huh?" Slim mouthed.

"Maybe not just yet. Let me handle this." Mort rotated to face the Pinkerton entourage, smiling beatifically. "I'd like to have a look at your search warrant, sir."

The man sneered. "None required if there's probable cause to enter these premises."

"And your probable cause is…?"

"The presence of four fugitives we have been empowered to…"

"Just a minute here…" Hooking his thumbs on his gunbelt, Corey rocked back and forth on his heels. "Did you personally observe these fugitives entering the premises?"

"No… but…"

"Do you have any witnesses who can attest to their presence inside Mister Sherman's domicile?"

"No… but…"

"On what do you base your belief that these individuals are here?"

"Now look here, sheriff…" the agent blustered.

"No… _you_ look. I would suggest, Mister Rademacher, that you have no probable cause. You and your compadres should return to town and cease harassing Mister Sherman."

"We _know_ they're in there," Rademacher snarled. "And they have to come out some time. When they do, we'll be right here waiting."

Giving Slim a clandestine wink, the sheriff strolled over to the surrey and leaned against a wheel, pushing his hat to the back of his head. "Let me remind you that Mister Sherman hasn't given you permission to come onto his property… and I doubt he's gonna. You might want to review the laws of trespass in this state and county."

"I don't need a lecture on liability from you, sir," the agent retorted.

Corey shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just sayin'… if you or one of your men were to accidently stray off the easement area onto private property, there's every chance you might be accidentally ventilated by Mister Sherman or one of his employees. Wouldn't be damn-all I could do about it, neither. Have a nice afternoon."

He straightened up, beckoning to the rancher and the doctor, who'd been standing by saying nothing. "Don't know about you boys but I sure could go for a cup a coffee and some of Miz Daisy's pie."

 **In the meantime,** Andy and Max had caught up the relay team for the afternoon stage and were standing just inside the pasture gate for the duration of the confrontation… unnoticed by the detective delegation. Having changed out of Missus Jackson's too-large loaner dress she'd worn on the trip out to the ranch, Max was wearing a pair of Andy's trousers, his old boots and an even older shirt of Jess' that Daisy had rescued from the rag bag. Her hair—knotted and pinned up on top of her head—was concealed by an ancient discarded slouch hat that Daisy occasionally wore when tending her little flower garden. Sandwiched between two haltered horses, little of Max was visible. She appeared to be just another young ranchhand, same as Andy.

As they'd waited for an opportune moment to slip through the gate, Slim had caught Max's eye and given her the tiniest of negative nods. Just before heading to the house, he jerked his head at them.

"Andy, Joe… you _boys_ gonna stand there all day gawpin'? Get those nags in the corral then come on into the house. Got some chores need doin' inside."

"Yessir… we're walkin',"Andy sang out. "C'mon, Joe."

Rademacher dismissed the two ranchhands as inconsequential. The bigger prizes were inside the house and it was his intention to maintain the vigil until their mission was accomplished in accordance with the Pinkerton motto… _'We Never Sleep.'_

 **The day had started out warm** and gotten warmer. The ranch house's interior would've been sweltering if not for Doc Adam's demonstration. Rather than having _all_ the doors and windows standing open, it was much more effective to leave open only the front door and, in the washroom at the back of the house, the side door leading to the yard. This, he explained, created a wind tunnel that sucked in whatever breeze came along. Also… propping open the ceiling and roof hatches allowed hot air to rise and escape.

Daisy fretted a bit when a cold evening repast was proposed, rather than a full hot cooked meal… but a show of hands carried the motion and the kitchen stove was damped as well. The only oil lamps burning were the ones above the parlor and kitchen tables.

A poker game was in progress in the parlor. They were playing for beans. Literally. Navy beans were worth a dollar, kidney beans were five dollars, pinto beans represented ten dollars and black beans were twenty dollars. Daisy had distributed empty soup bowls to the players to contain their beans. Mother Superior Moira was winning and she already had most of the black beans. The priest, the lawman and the two doctors were hanging in, chagrined at being so thoroughly drubbed by a woman… and a nun at that.

Andy was taking his turn at porch watch with Mike nearby. Daisy'd objected but Slim'd reasoned that the Pinkerton men, however ferocious they might appear, wouldn't dare shoot at or near a child.

It was too hot for coffee. A lemonade production line had been assembled at the kitchen table. Now that refrigerated boxcars delivered fresh produce from California on a daily basis, such former luxuries as lemons, limes and oranges were readily available in Laramie's markets. The hard part was squeezing the darn lemons, Daisy lamented, especially for an old woman with arthritic hands. Jess usually did this for her—he did love his sugary iced lemonade. But Jess wasn't here so Ben'd been co-opted as chief squeezer. Tabitha was chipping sugar off the loaf and Maxine pulverizing it with mortar and pestle. Having already made several trips to the icehouse, Slim was in charge of chipping ice with a hammer and chisel.

As the mantel clock struck three, Slim not too regretfully announced his resignation from the lemonade line.

"Sorry, ladies. Time to get the relay team ready. I need Andy so Ben'll have to spell 'im."

"What about those men outside?" Daisy inquired. "Aren't you worried they might start something? Especially that horrible little man… I don't trust him."

"Now Daisy… don't go borrowing trouble. They've been peaceful so far," Slim sought to reassure her. "Most likely they'll just give up and go away if we ignore 'em."

Closing the door to the side porch behind them, Andy tried to avoid any show of interest in the roadshow. "Slim… how can you be so sure nothing's gonna happen? They look awfully determined to me."

Slim chuckled. "They can't afford to instigate violence, Andy. Bad for publicity. They're counting on intimidating us into making the first move so they'll have a reason to fight back."

"Will we have to, d'ya think? Fight, I mean…"

"Nah. All we have to do is to convince them our balls are bigger than theirs. Couldn't say that in front of the women, of course."

The younger brother smothered a laugh, secretly pleased to be ranked as generously-equipped as the older brother.

 **Out on the road,** Lead Agent Rademacher and Agent Closeau were doing all right on padded seats in the shade of the surrey's canopy. Agents Monk, Drebin, Magnum and Tracy weren't faring as well. Their boss not only wasn't allowing them to dismount to stretch their legs, he was totally disregarding the needs of their thirsty horses. When Magnum inquired if they could at least—one at a time—ride back to the stream they'd crossed, right around the bend in the road, he was told in no uncertain terms to hold position. The saddle horses were growing more fractious by the minute and the poor surrey team had grown stiff from standing in the traces. The men hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast and their canteens were nearly empty.

In the main, Pinkerton employees were decent individuals—literate, presentable, capable of exhibiting common sense and sworn to uphold the company code of honor. However, as in all organizations there were always those whose moral standards and personal conduct were less than sterling. In the minds of three of the five subordinate agents—Clouseau, Monk and Magnum—kernels of doubt were beginning to sprout independently as to the sanity of their leader. Did he seriously expect they could keep this up until nightfall? And then what? Was outright mutiny a viable option? If they simply refused to follow orders and rode away, would he hesitate to shoot them in the back? The man was obviously deranged and obsessed. Separated as they were, there was no opportunity to put their heads together.

The other two agents—Drebin and Tracy—represented the lower end of the morality spectrum… the types who volunteered for the nastier jobs such as breaking strikes by breaking arms, legs and heads. Drebin and Tracy were itching for action. A show of force was what was needed here. These pissant bumpkins could be easily overcome if only that spineless twerp of a lead agent would give the word. Rademacher didn't seem to notice, or care, that Tracy and Drebin had gradually migrated away from their assigned areas. Now within conversational distance of each other, they were busily plotting insurrection while watching two people exit the house and head for the corral. It was a temptation…

"We could nail 'em easy… an' the one on the porch, too," Tracy opined. "That'd get their attention."

Drebin disagreed. "Nah. Sooner or later they're gonna get antsy an' try to scare us off with a pot shot over our heads. Then we'll be within rights to shoot back. Not inta the shack 'cuz we don't wanna risk hittin' one a the kids—but enough to have 'em crappin' in their drawers. Be like kickin' over a anthill."

 **Approaching the rise** overlooking the ranch compound, Jess and Jaimie were walking their mounts at a snail's pace—to avoid aggravating Traveller's hoof problem, Jess claimed. Trailing behind with the pack mules in tow, Jaimie could detect no unevenness in the animal's gait. What concerned him was Jess' deteriorating posture in the saddle—he was hunched over in obvious discomfort.

"Can we stop for a few minutes?" Jaimie called out.

Jess shook his head. "Close to home now. Just a few minutes…" Even without that assertion Jaimie could've guessed at that from the way the horses were pricking their ears, flaring their nostrils and champing at their bits, wanting to move along faster.

Topping the rise, Jess pulled up unexpectedly. Jaimie eased Ranger up alongside and looked down the winding road toward whatever had Jess' attention. Far below he could make out a large buggy of some kind stopped in front of the house, with maybe two people in the front seat. To one side were two figures on horseback. About a third of the way up the hill from the corner of the front pasture, another rider who'd been stationary reined his mount around to face them.

Jess' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Somethin' wrong down there," he murmured.

Jaimie didn't even bother to ask what'd tipped him off… how he could possibly ken these weren't just ordinary visitors. And he didn't question when Jess slipped his rifle out of its scabbard and handed it over.

"Take this."

Jess took a few more minutes to imprint the scene below, his subconscious registering everything else that was—or wasn't—in order. No smoke drifting from the kitchen chimney. A tall figure and a smaller one in the corral, harnessing the relays—Slim and Andy. They were running late—the stage'd be along any minute now, with that surrey directly in its path. Someone sitting in a porch rocker, a long object across his lap that probably wasn't a broom—who… and why? In the pasture Father Flynn's unmistakable giant mule and two huge black horses that had to be Doctor Whatleigh's—what were they doing here? A brown mule, not one of their own gray ones—whose? The spring wagon was parked under the cottonwood tree by the corral—were those kids back? If so, then the porch guard had to be that nephew, Ben.

Jess motioned to start moving down the hill. As they drew closer to the man nearest them, he held up a hand, signaling them to stop. The badge he wore was a familiar shield-shape although the inscription on it wasn't quite decipherable yet. What was a United States marshal doing here?

"Road's closed, sirs. You'll have to turn around and detour by the main road."

"Why?"

"Because it is. We have a situation here and we don't need any civilians caught up in it."

"That a fact?" Jess had gone expressionless, his tone neutral. He allowed his mount to prance forward a couple of steps. Now in sight of his home, Scout was anxious to get there and pawing the ground to communicate his insistence.

Jaimie was surreptitiously watching his companion, almost empathizing with Jess' growing impatience and tension. Tired, hurting and physically compromised though he might be, Jess Harper was still a very dangerous man. How could the individual confronting them not sense that? Scout took another determined step forward. The man with the badge slowly reached for what presumably was a gun in a shoulder holster. Before he could get there, he found himself looking up the snout of a pistol.

"Uh… gentlemen… let's not be hasty!" the man gulped, just as slowly withdrawing the hand from his coat and carefully extending his arm out to the side. "I'm just following orders."

"I ain't bein' hasty a'tall," Jess put in affably, squinting to get a better look at that badge. "Oh… one a them Pinkerton fellas, are ya? That's a improvement. Here I thought I was gonna hafta plug me a marshal an' no good ever comes a that!" He nodded in the direction of the surrey. "Them others part a your gang?"

"We… uh… we all work together. Sir." The agent stuttered. What he'd taken to be ordinary cowboys obviously weren't. Well… not _that_ one, leastwise. The one leading the mules looked pretty harmless.

"The thing is, Mister Pinkerton, I _live_ there. I co-own this spread. I been on this horse for hours an' I'm lookin' to trade 'im in for a rockin' chair real soon."

"It's more'n my job's worth to let you pass. Sir." The other man spoke miserably.

Jess casually leaned forward on the horn—to Jaimie's practiced eye not so much for effect as because he needed the support. Something else Jaimie noticed was the red patch blooming on Jess' shirtfront where the stitches must've torn loose.

"Mister… ah… what's your name?" Jaimie was trying hard to look menacing.

"It's M… M… Monk… Agent Melvin Monk."

"Agent Monk…" Jaimie continued, "what my friend's trying to convey, as pleasantly as he's able, is that we are both tired, hungry and thirsty… so if you could kindly step aside…"

"I c…c… can't…" Agent Monk whimpered.

"Reckon I'll just hafta shoot ya," Jess commented offhand, cocking his weapon. "Whaddya say, Jaimie? On the count a three…?"


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28—_ **A KARMIC VORTEX**

 **Slim's optimistic prognostication** might've proven correct had not a synchrony of unfortunate events directed otherwise. For once, the afternoon coach was on time, cresting the hill and beginning its descent at exactly three minutes to four o'clock. Because of the side-winding nature of the downgrade to the relay station, driver Luke Perry had no visual forewarning of the obstacles in his path until he was almost on them—three mounted men, one unridden horse and two loaded pack mules. Hauling in the ribbons and laying on the brake did little to arrest the forward momentum of four horses and a two-thousand five-hundred-pound vehicle… not even taking into consideration the weight of the driver, passengers, baggage and mail sacks. It wasn't going to stop any time soon.

In order to draw and aim his weapon, Jess'd dropped Traveller's lead and transferred Scout's reins to his left hand. Normally, he wouldn't have had any difficulty keeping his mount under control, but the ache in his shoulder from the earlier dislocation and the renewed pain on that same side combined to weaken his grip. Normally, Scout wouldn't have taken the lessening of pressure on the bit as an invitation to bolt. Normally, Traveller would've observed training protocols and stayed right where the rope hit the ground. But the situation wasn't normal.

Six pairs of equine ears swiveled toward the source of the rumbles rolling down from higher up and six sets of legs sprang into action as the flight response kicked in. Scout lunged forward, ramming into Agent Monk's horse with enough force to bowl it over and fling its luckless rider into a greasewood bush growing from the bluff side of the road. As Jess struggled to keep his seat, his trigger finger tightened convulsively, sending a shot into the air.

Traveller surged behind Scout. Ranger, not about to be outdone by his barn mates, lit out after them. Preoccupied with the rifle in one hand and his own reins plus a lead line in the other, Jaimie made a split second decision to drop everything and kick himself free of the saddle. A classic tuck-and-roll delivered him to the relative safety of the pasture fence, where—though bruised and shaken—he found himself still in possession of the rifle. The mules' hooves had missed him by inches. The agent's horse had scrambled to its feet and joined the ensemble galloping downhill.

 **Slim and Andy'd come out early** and worked at a deliberately relaxed pace to give the impression they couldn't care less about the idiots littering their forecourt.

"I thought the Pinkertons were just detectives," Andy'd grumbled. "Why are they bothering us?"

"That's how they started out," Slim'd said. "Since the war they've branched out into some pretty questionable activities. Personally I think the federal government's setting a bad precedent, contracting out security and law enforcement to civilians… but that's just my opinion." He cast a baleful glare at one of the men who'd just jogged around the corner of the pasture and a little way uphill.

"So if they were real police, they wouldn't be allowed to act this way?"

"There's bound to be bad apples in every organization. We were just unlucky enough to attract a bushelful."

Andy'd been running a currycomb over an already slick and shining rump. "Somethin' I been thinkin' about," he ruminated after a few minutes.

"Yeah? What's that?"

"I'm not legally an adult until I'm twenty-one, right?"

Slim'd paused. "Yeah… here and in most states and other territories. Of course, there's a difference between _legal_ and _effective…_ "

"How so?"

"Well… _legally,_ you have to be twenty-one to vote or enter into a binding contract without a parent's or guardian's consent. But _effectively_ —socially—you're generally considered an adult by the time you hit eighteen. Even younger if you're on your own."

"So if I wanted to leave and go someplace else, you couldn't stop me from going or force me to come back… or have me arrested?"

"I could _try_ , but probably wouldn't be successful. As I understand it, running away is a _status_ offense, not a _criminal_ one. What brought that up?"

"You reckon it's the same in Pennsylvania?"

"Pretty sure it is," Slim'd responded carefully. "What's on your mind, Andy?" He'd ceased currying altogether to focus his full attention on his brother.

"Well… Eddie's only seventeen… but Ben and Tabbie are eighteen and Max is nineteen. I don't see how anyone can physically prevent 'em from going wherever they want to, unless they've committed a crime. I mean, the Pinkertons can't arrest 'em and put 'em in handcuffs and force 'em to go home… can they?"

Slim's mouth had literally fallen open. "I can't believe no one's thought of that."

"Wish I'da thought of that sooner, Slim."

"Soon's we're done with the stage, we'll go get the sheriff and have a word with…"

Slim's about-to-be-stated intention was interrupted by the first shot… coming from _up_ the hill.

 **On the road below,** the everyone's attention was drawn to the commotion halfway up the slope. The strident neighs and brays mingled with human shouting and the now audible advent of the coach would've been enough to unnerve the stoutest heart, but it was that single gunshot that touched off the abandonment of détente by all parties.

Convinced their hopes had been fulfilled though the location of the shooter remained unidentified, Agents Drebin and Tracy drew their weapons and commenced firing at the house. Lead Agent Rademacher, having leaped to his feet and once again mashed his bowler against the canopy, was shooting blindly in the general direction of the barn and the corral. Agent Clouseau was on his hands and knees on the surrey's floor, trying to locate the pistol he'd drawn and fumbled. Agent Magnum had his weapon out, hesitating to settle on a target but seriously considering taking out Rademacher. It occurred to him that a prudent course might be to attempt to head off that clutch of horses and mules bearing down at speed before they were all trampled in the melee. On the other hand, an even better option would be to do unto the shooter in the corral—currently crouched behind the water trough—what the shooter was trying to do unto him. And that would be best accomplished from behind the protection of the surrey. He jumped off his horse and ran behind the vehicle. Freed of restraint, his mount trotted over to the water trough by the corral and started tanking up. Up the road, Agent Monk—scratched and bleeding with his clothing ripped to shreds—was trying to disentangle himself from the thorny bush and his gun from its holster.

 **Trusting the front porch guard** to raise the alarm should there be any developments, the occupants of the ranch house had continued entertaining themselves quietly. The poker game'd fizzled out as Mother Superior Bartholomew had systematically deprived the other players of their beans, which were now being resorted into their respective sacks by Mike. Daisy and Young Doc were attending their patient in the back bedroom. The beverage production team having at last depleted the supply of lemons and oranges, Tabbie and Eddy were doing the wash-up. At the parlor table, Max was enthralling the priest and the nun with an unexpurgated version of her and her cousins' familial connection to the Shermans and their introductions thereto on the night of the aborted raid. Having just concluded personal business in the washroom, Sheriff Corey and Doc Adam were buttoning up.

The single gunshot in the not too far off distance echoed in the valley and reverberated within the walls of the ranch house. Everyone froze, blinking upwards as if expecting the sky to start falling through the roof. Seconds later they were diving for the floor as a hail of bullets raked the front of the house, smashing windows and flying through the open front door.

Earlier, Slim had unlocked the cabinet that housed their domestic arsenal, now loaded and propped in a corner by the piano. Duckwalking from the hallway, Sheriff Corey handed a rifle to Doc Adam, hissing at him to pass it along to Father Sean under the parlor table where he was sheltering with his religious counterpart and that red-headed girl. Daisy flew out the bedroom door only to be ignominiously yanked to the floor by Young Doc.

"Stay down!" Amazingly agile for such a bulky individual, the doctor scuttled past her on hands and knees to receive the next piece of weaponry.

Squatting by the piano, Corey reached up to open the door to the root cellar.

"All you women… down there… NOW! You, too, Mike."

Tabbie and Eddie scuttled out from under the kitchen table, shoving the boy ahead of them, and disappeared into the darkness of the cellar. It took Daisy a little longer to get there, hampered as she was by having to stop and hitch her skirts ahead of her knees.

Corey yelled at the two remaining females to get a move on.

"Like hell!" the nun snorted. "Gimme one of those peashooters!"

"Ben's out there!" Max yelped, starting to wriggle for the front door.

"Oh no you don't, missy…" Father Sean grabbed an ankle and dragged her back just as her cousin slithered over the threshold.

"I'm okay… I'm okay…" Ben assured her, panting and white-faced.

Crawling up to the sheriff, Daisy snatched the next rifle—a lightweight .22—out of his grasp and butt-scootched out of reach.

"What the…? Give that back, woman!" Corey roared. "And get in the cellar like I said!"

"Not on your tintype, old man," Daisy hurled back. "I can shoot as well as any of you—Jess taught me himself!"

"So can I… give me one of those shotguns," Max shrilled.

There were only two guns left—a rifle and a shotgun. Doc Adam needed one and so did Corey.

"Sorry. Not enough to go around."

Adam shrugged. "Actually, I do better with a handgun. Let the girl have the shotgun. You take the rifle and I'll take your pistol… unless there's another one in the safe."

Corey checked. "Nope. This is it."

"I know where one is…" a childish voice piped up next to the sheriff's elbow. He twisted around to see Mike's eyes and nose protruding above the top step of the root cellar.

"What? Where?"

A hand came up and a finger pointed toward the fireplace. "Up there… behind the loose brick. That's where Jess keeps his _special_ gun I ain't 'sposed to know about…"

"Stay put. I'll look…" The veterinarian snaked over to fireplace and cautiously stood. Following the boy's instructions he located the correct brick and withdrew an oiled canvas bundle, sinking back to his knees.

"If that's what I think it is, Doc… you be extra careful unwrapping it," Corey advised. "And be damned careful handling it… that sucker has a hair trigger. A sneeze could set it off." Remembering to thank Mike, he gently closed the door in his face.

With chaos raging outside, the newly armed defenders arranged themselves to the sides of the door and damaged windows and commenced a counterattack.

 **The initial idea of shooting** _at_ the solid parts of the house but not _into_ it via doors and windows would've worked if Drebin and Tracy had been aiming and firing from static positions rather than atop mounts gyrating like carousel horses. As it was, projectiles were radiating from their weapons like sparks from a Catherine wheel—spraying in all directions. Unlike stock horses conditioned to gunfire, none of the livery horses had been gun-proofed. All six had jumped at the first report and then went berserk at the successive ones. Coming to life and heaving themselves into their collars, the carriage team shot forward, the twenty-pound tetherweight bouncing between them in the dirt. Rademacher toppled backwards into the middle seat, discharging his pistol through the canopy. Clouseau smacked his head on the underside of the front bench just as his fingers were closing on the lost weapon. It skittered out of reach. The surrey careened away. Left standing in the open with nothing to hide behind, Magnum dropped to the ground.

Trailing smoke from friction on the brake, the stagecoach was closing in on the band of animals racing for the barn. The four horses and two mules stampeded around the corner of the pasture and leaned into the curve around the corral, missing the surrey by two lengths as that team swerved left to follow the road. With no room left to run, the runaways skidded to a full stop in the side yard between the house and the barn, occasioning a number of chicken fatalities.

From his elevated position on the driver's seat, fully occupied with the ribbons and brake lever, Luke Perry couldn't see any way to avoid a collision between his coach and the evidently unmanned surrey passing directly in front. The only saving grace in this instance was that his team of veterans were familiar with the road. They were already decelerating in anticipation of the hard turn to the right coming up. As there was nothing else Luke could do, he braced for impact and turned his concern to the rattle of gunfire taking place in and around the relay station… and the riders whose horses were bucking and pirouetting right where the coach usually stopped. What fresh hell was this? He hoped his passengers had the common sense to hunker down on the floor of the coach, hopefully out of the way of flying lead. A horrendous shrieking resounded as wheel hubs collided when the two vehicles passed each other. The stage continued on its way, largely unaffected, but the surrey's progress was retarded as its starboard side collided with the bluff face paralleling the road. As it scraped and shuddered to a stop, the team broke free and kept on running.

 **Though somehow having managed** to hang on to both saddle and pistol, Jess wasn't sure his legs would hold out if he attempted to dismount. He considered continuing to just sit there, hunched over the horn and Scout's withers, until someone came to his rescue. However, the bullets whistling about his head suggested that a less than graceful descent from the saddle was preferable to being shot out of it. Swinging a leg over, he slowly bellied down, leaving a long reddish streak on the seat jockey and fender. He was right about his legs not working too well, but he was able to crawl over behind the well pump housing right by the side kitchen door.

Jess didn't have a clue what was going on or why… but there were three gunman out there on the road—two mounted and one prone—and that was all he needed to know. There seemed to be an awful lot of blasting coming from _inside_ the house, yet none of _those_ shots seemed to be finding a mark. Were they deliberately trying to _not_ hit the road agents? Jess pondered this improbability for about two seconds before attempting to draw a bead… which proved problematic as a clear shot was impeded by a forest of legs milling about smartly in the side yard.

In his peripheral vision Jess caught a glimpse of his partner's face peering around the corner of the water trough. Slim appeared to miming a query to him… _are you okay?_ Jess held up a thumb to indicate that he was. Slim nodded and disappeared just as the stagecoach wobbled up and squealed to a stop, forcing Drebin's and Tracy's mounts to leap out of the way and slam up against the pasture fence.

Both men had the presence of mind to jump clear before their legs could be crushed against the top rail. Their two horses dashed for the safety of their brethren near the barn. Magnum scrambled up, the body of the coach now affording a bulwark for all three agents and a respite in which to reload. The driver wasn't wearing a gunbelt and he made a grab for his shotgun. Drebin was quicker, though, and Luke tumbled off the seat to lie unmoving in the road.

 **Having extricated themselves** from the wreckage of the surrey, Rademacher and Clouseau were bobbing and weaving down the road, both brandishing their pistols. Monk loped slightly behind, not entirely certain he was really that interested in catching up. They didn't notice the man hidden in the tall grass on the other side of the road as they stumbled by.

Doctor Jaimie was in a quandary. As a doctor he was sworn to preserve life, not to take it… and to do no harm, not willfully injure another human being. But these outlaws were trying to kill his friends… his future patients. Would blowing away these three in exchange for the future health and well-being of the others violate his oath? In any case, as they were now moving away from him, he'd be obliged to shoot them in the back and that was unconscionable. But what if he waited just a little longer until they were almost out of range and _then_ shot them… somewhat lower? That would definitely inconvenience them without causing permanent disability or critically endangering their lives…

"As Pa used to say, _'in for a penny, in for a pound.'_ " Jaimie mumbled to himself, raising up on one knee and opening the scattergun's choke for the widest possible spray pattern.

As Lead Agent Rademacher trotted abreast of the corner of the pasture fence, he realized that one of the two men hiding behind the water trough near the corral was his nemesis, Slim Sherman—who hadn't yet seen him… or his henchmen shoulder to shoulder behind him. Retribution was therefore conveniently at hand for the indignities visited upon himself in the sheriff's office the other day. The rancher was at his mercy and it was too good an opportunity to pass up. The agent stopped to steady himself, sighted in his target and pulled the trigger.

Simultaneously, the doctor loosed both barrels of buckshot at buttocks, thighs and calves…

 **As not a peep issued** from the coach's interior, the agents assumed it was unoccupied. Agent Magnum wrenched the door open to find four white faces framed in wimples, staring back at him in wide-eyed fright. A hand protruded from a dogpile of black-clad nuns huddled on the floor, waving a largish wooden cross in his face. A girlish voice intoned, with false bravado, _'Dicens… vade retro me Satana!'_

Magnum blinked. _Satan? She's calling me the Devil?_ "Excuse me," he muttered, gently closing the door and turning to his compatriots. "This's gone way too far. If we persist in this folly we'll all go to prison."

"What? For doin' our jobs?" Tracy snorted.

"Who's in there?" Drebin demanded, reaching for the door handle.

Magnum blocked him. "Nuns. And you're gonna leave 'em alone."

"Sez you! I say they're bait. I say we use 'em as hostages to trade for those kids. Rademacher'll agree…"

Magnum didn't care for the crazed glitter in the other man's eyes. "Rademacher's crazy as a shithouse rat… and so are you if you think…"

Drebin cocked his newly-reloaded pistol, having already decided to exterminate this troublesome co-worker and his annoying turn of conscience. Tracy was set to back him up when the trio was distracted by fresh gunfire erupting from the corner of the pasture, followed by the screams of wounded men. Magnum took advantage of the diversion to knee Drebin in the balls, sock him in the chin and rap him over the head with his gun barrel. And while Tracy was processing this betrayal, Magnum shot him in the heart.

 **Augmented by the addition** of Tracy's and Drebin's horses, the impromptu herd had bunched up toward the back of the barn, hemmed in by the bunkhouse, the showers and the side of the house. Jess now had a clear line of sight past the corral to the pasture and up the road. He saw the three men on foot suddenly halting and the one taking up a shooter's stance. He saw the muzzle flash and watched his partner fall, then—from farther up the road—two _more_ flashes that sent two of the three men face down in the dirt, thrashing around and making a hell of a lot of noise. Slim's assailant was still standing… but not for any longer than needed for Jess to dispatch him with a hand steadied by pure rage.

A solitary report coming from somewhere on the other side of the stagecoach marked the conclusion of the gunfight. After that, the quiet was broken only by the snorting and snuffling of agitated horses winding down, the occasional stamp of a shod foot… and a lot of moaning. No sounds came from the house. At this point, Jess was totally confused. And very, very tired. Everything he owned seemed to be hurting all at once… and his best friend was dead. Had to be, at that close range.

 _This's gotta be the granddaddy a all nightmares. I'll just rest here for awhile with my back against the pump… an' maybe close my eyes for a minute or two…_


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29—_ **THE OASIS OF TRANQUILLITY**

 **Jess resisted being drawn** from his comfortable suspension in that aqueous state between sleep and wakefulness.

"G'way… lemme 'lone…" he mumbled irritably, refusing to open his eyes. Whoever was patting his naked shoulder was about to get a punch in the nose… if only he had the energy to make a fist.

"C'mon, Jess. Wake up…." The voice belonged to Slim, though… and that couldn't be because Slim was dead…

 _DEAD?_

Jess' eyelids flew open. The interior of the room was dim, lit only by a narrow thread of light filtering from the parlor around the not-quite-closed door. A slightly lighter rectangle of gray marked the location of the single window, indicating that it was past sundown. Turning his head, he could barely make out the silhouetted figure seated on the next bed and leaning toward him…

"Slim? That you?" It came out as a whisper.

"You were expecting someone else?"

"I thought… I was sure… you was dead…"

"Nope. Not yet. Could easily have been, though."

"But I saw 'im… I saw you go down…"

"That you did… but guess what? You saved my life… again." Slim chuckled.

"Huh? Howzat?"

"Just when he went to pick me off, I stood up to see what'd happened to _you_ … so he got me in the shoulder instead of the temple."

"But… you're okay? You're really okay?"

"Yeah, Jess. I'm fine. Better than you, pard. Young Doc had to stitch you back up after we got you in the house. He says both of us'll be fine as frog hair in no time—faster if we don't wallow in bed too long. Supper's almost on the table. Let's get you up and dressed."

"Aw, Slim… I feel like I been run over by the stage… can't I just…?"

"No malingering allowed in this house."

Slim wasn't sure how much use a one-armed valet was going to be but he gave it a try. They both went out into the parlor barefoot and with untucked shirts and matching slings.

 **Jess looked around in bewilderment.** Everything looked so inviting… and _normal_. As if the day's events had never happened. Had it all been just a bad dream? The parlor was even tidier than usual. A small fire danced in the fireplace. The floor had been swept and mopped. Light sparkled from recently polished glass chimneys in the oil lamps. Enticing smells were wafting around the corner from the kitchen.

Little by little elements came into focus belying _that_ wishful thought. Curtains fluttering in empty squares where panes had been broken out. Rifles and shotguns were stacked near the piano instead of locked in the cabinet. A tray on top of the piano held rag patches, bore rods, brushes and cans of solvent and lubricant in readiness for a cleaning party to come. The big giveaway was the parlor table set for nine. _NINE?_ Where was everyone?

"Uh… where is everyone?" Jess queried.

Slim grinned then, signature dimples creasing his cheeks as he playfully socked his partner in the arm. "All gone and not a minute too soon. I was about to start charging hotel and restaurant rates."

"But…" Jess pointed to the table where usually reposed only four place settings… five when Andy was home.

"I meant _family,_ Jess… all gone except _family._ "

 **Mike looked around the table** and sighed contentedly. Now _this_ was family… the way he vaguely remembered how it _used_ to be before his ma and pa took a notion to come out west… when his folks and aunts and uncles and cousins gathered at gramma and grampa's big farmhouse on Sundays and feast days. He didn't have that family anymore because no one'd been able to trace where his folks'd come from… too doggone many Williams back east and no one'd come looking for him. But this was okay. Better than okay. He felt safe and loved here and he sure did love Slim and Jess and Aunt Daisy and Andy. When Aunt Daisy called on him to ask the blessing, he remembered to include his real ma and pa even though nowadays he had trouble recalling what they looked like. Which Andy said was okay because he couldn't remember his too good, either. Andy said he was pretty sure their folks were looking down on both of them from Heaven and would never forget what _they_ looked like. Andy said bad things happened… like today… but you get over it. Right now everything was fine. Just fine.

 **Jess, too, looked around the table** and sighed. Not for the same reasons as the youngster sitting across from him. His emotions were tumbling about like kittens in a laundry basket—hidden from everyone except Slim, who kept casting curious glances but didn't give him away. Not even two weeks ago Slim might've been able to help him work out why he was feeling the way he was, during the bullshit hour on the porch. No chance for that now, though… not with the house overflowing with outsiders.

Jess'd seldom felt any remorse for the men he'd killed… most of them had needed it—like that one today. Regret, maybe… but not remorse. In his younger days he'd kept a mental tally of the men he'd faced, one on one, but had long since lost count. What was the point when there were so many more whose names he'd never known, who'd never seen his bullet coming? Today's killing had been in revenge, not self-defense… and it wasn't sitting too well.

Funny, wasn't it? And sad—how life came at you sideways sometimes. Six months ago he'd been the one searching for lost kinfolk. Found them, too… yet couldn't hold on to them. Slim's lost kin came looking for him and found him. Sure, they'd be leaving soon… but in the meantime they were commanding Slim's and Andy's attention. _Grow a pair, boy! Ain't nothin' but jealousy. You're not some little kid feelin' excluded 'cause the new baby's took your place in the cradle…_

On top of everything else was the humiliation of having to let Mike cut up his pork chops for him. On the other hand, Daisy had to do the same for Slim.

 **Slim was all too aware** of his partner's discomfiture although there was nothing he could do about it at present. It never ceased to perplex him how a man as resilient and self-reliant as Jess Harper could—at the same time, without words or actions—communicate such vulnerability to those he trusted. He could see, even if Jess himself couldn't, how much harder it was becoming for Jess to maintain that tough-guy image. _Hang in there, buddy. Won't be long we'll be out on that front porch, laughing over this rough patch…_

Watching Andy engrossed in animated conversation with the newfound relatives, Slim realized he was feeling the same sense of loss he'd suffered when Jess'd swooped in and unseated his position as the center of his little brother's world. It hadn't been pleasant then, but logic dictated that this was what happened when children grew up and away. That same logic was now advising it didn't have to be this way… he didn't have to let Andy slip completely away from him. With a little effort on his part in overcoming resistance to change, they could welcome this expansion of their family universe together. He found himself thinking about the trunk in the attic.

 **At the far end of the table,** Andy was trying to enjoy what time together they had left and not dwell on their imminent departure… or his own. On balance, he liked being at school as much as his home visits. Seemed like every summer vacation, though, brought some landmark life experience and emotional upheaval into his otherwise unremarkable existence. Last summer it'd been losing his virginity to an 'older' woman in a mountain meadow while on an extended fishing trip with Jess—something he had yet to confess to Slim. The year before that, it'd been killing that Chinese thug in a red rage of revenge for the perceived deaths of his _only_ family—his brother and Jess. Yeah, he'd told a little white lie to Ben—he still thought about it, still dreamed about it though not as much these days. And now this… a boatload of kin who felt more like siblings or cousins than nephew and nieces—quite possibly the most meaningful addition to his life since Jess had entered the picture. Though Slim might still be hesitant about pursuing the relationship with their Eastern folks, Andy had every intention of doing so.

 **Daisy was concentrating** _her_ efforts on trying to divine from her beloved 'boys' expressions what could be going through their minds. Not the two younger ones, as their moods were reflected on their faces—Mike's happy and content, Andy's thoughtful and optimistic. Slim's could only be interpreted as doleful while Jess was looking like someone'd shot his pet dog. What on earth was the matter with those two? This dinner should be an occasion for celebration. Granted, this home hadn't exactly been an oasis of tranquility for the past week, but none of them had died or even been severely injured, except for Jess, whose amazingly rapid recoveries were the stuff of legends. Out of a nowhere a long-forgotten memory swam into her thoughts… overheard as a child when her mother and a woman friend were complaining about their husbands… ' _that man wouldn't be happy if he had his tallywhacker in a solid gold vise…'_ Trying to disguise a giggle as a discreet cough made it come out more forcefully than intended. Slim patted her on the back, thinking she was choking on something.

 **By mutual consent,** dinner conversation precluded references to the gorier aspects of the day's activities. But with the meal over and the washing-up and putting-away done, the floor was open to discussion. Everyone had a portion to contribute from his or her point of view, so that an overall picture began emerging of who did what and how it all meshed together. From her rocking chair throne, Daisy was presiding over a knitting and crocheting bee with acolytes Tabbie and Eddie. Mike had been recruited to hold the wool skeins while Eddie wound the balls. Claiming all thumbs, Max had excused herself and was sitting at the parlor table cleaning guns alongside Andy and Ben, with Slim and Jess relegated to advisory status.

All non-resident personnel beside the Pennsylvanians had been shuttled to town, including Rusty. Young Doc had deemed him stable enough to be transported—with care—to his clinic. As it turned out, Luke Perry hadn't been seriously injured—just a flesh wound to the upper arm and a temporary loss of consciousness from the fall from the driver's seat. He was able to continue driving the coach. The four young nuns had got over their fright and Mother Superior Bartholomew had ridden back with them. The spring wagon had been employed to transport the six Pinkertons, both surviving and deceased, with Orrie driving and the trio of doctors riding guard.

"We'll have to go to town in a day or two to give statements," Slim commented. "The Pinkerton agency's going to demand explanations. Mort seems pretty confident we're not liable for the two dead agents—not with three of them agreeing to testify on our behalf that their boss'd gone plumb loco."

"What about the fourth man?" Andy asked. "The one that got kicked in the… with the concussion?"

"He'll be arrested soon as he wakes up… if he wakes up."

Daisy spoke up. "I was listening in when Mother Moira was calming down those young nuns… they overheard that one man trying to protect them and they're going to speak up for him. Too bad they had such a rude introduction to their new home but I believe they'll come to terms with life out here soon enough. I certainly did."

Slim laughed. "Lucky for us. Don't know what we'd do without you, Daisy."

"How do you all like that new doctor?" Andy inquired. "I think he's great."

"I'd be proud to have that man in my corner anytime," Jess agreed. "Wish I'd seen what happened after he filled those two ole boys' pants with buckshot."

"They had to ride back to town on their bellies in the back of the wagon next to the corpses," Slim snickered. Everyone had a good laugh over that.

"None of this would've happened if we'd never come here," Ben sighed. Everyone sobered up then.

"At any rate, it's all over now and we can forget about it," Slim said.

"Not quite," Daisy remonstrated. "We still have to do something about those teenage horse thieves."

"Yeah. Them." Slim sighed. "Well, one thing at a time. For tonight can we all please just relax and give thanks none of us were badly hurt."

"Speak for yourself, Hard Rock," Jess challenged, not entirely in jest. "I've felt better."

"There's something else we haven't really addressed yet," Max put in.

"Oh? What's that?"

She gestured toward her cousins. "Us. How we came to be a divided family. And what we can do to fix it."

Silence reigned in the room.

Andy carefully snapped in the last piece to the weapon he'd just reassembled—Jess' special gun, the last symbol of his former life—and held it up for its owner's approval.

Jess stared at it for a moment and shook his head, speaking quietly. "I'm sure it's just fine, Andy."

"In that case I'll just put it away where it belongs."

Andy restored Slim's and Jess' regular sidearms to their holsters and the two shotguns to their mounts in the kitchen and over the fireplace. In the meantime, Ben and Max cleared off the table, returning cleaning materials to their storage box and securing the remaining weapons in the safe.

With that done, Slim asked his brother to go up into the attic and bring down the little red leather trunk in which their mother had kept her treasures… and her journals.

"Get Ben to help… and be careful—it's heavy."

 **The dome-topped trunk** was covered in dust and cobwebs from the many years it'd been in storage. Andy'd even forgot it was up there. Slim went into the bedroom to fetch the key from the keepsake box where he kept the few mementos of their lives as a family—Matthew Senior's gold cufflinks and Masonic signet ring, silver baby rattles, a locket with the newlyweds' miniature portraits, Mary Grace's pearl earrings and her grandmother's heirloom engagement ring… intended for his own bride… someday.

The lock was rusty and it took Andy some doing to get it open. The boys had placed the trunk on two chairs so that its contents were visible to all who pressed around. Andy lifted out the top layer—a thick bundle of tissue paper—and laid it on the table, unfolding it to reveal a christening gown and matching cap that elicited 'oohs' and 'ahs' from the females. The silky cotton lawn and lace had gone ivory with age.

"This was mine… and Andy's," Slim said. He went on to explain that Mary Grace had fashioned it and successive ones from her wedding dress.

"But… where are the others, then?" Max asked.

Slim ducked his head and looked away. "Buried with the babies that didn't live."

The gown was the only item of clothing. The next layer was a sketchbook and a sheaf of charcoal drawings of various subjects—not museum quality but very nice renderings all the same. These were signed by Mary Grace Johnson and dated prior to her marriage. The bundles of letters came next. These Slim laid aside. The bottom was filled with journals… almost one slender volume for every year of Mary Grace's adult life… and a pocket Bible which neither Slim nor Andy recalled ever having seen before. This was not the big family Bible that had always lived in the corner bookcase by the front door.

The flyleaf identified it, in a spidery feminine hand, as a gift to a beloved husband—Matthew Elijah Schirrman—from his wife, Clara Jane, celebrating their firstborn child… a daughter. Below that was inscribed, in the same handwriting, the child's name—Theodora Alice—and her date of birth. And below _that_ , in a blocky masculine hand Slim recognized as his father's, the names of twins Louise Katherine and Christopher Gustave and their date of birth. The only other entry was, on that same date, that of the death of Clara Jane McBurnie Schirrman.

The brothers could only look at each other, wondering what else they'd never known about their parents. Slim wordlessly handed the little book to Maxine.

"Theodora… Dory… is my mother." She handed it to Eddie.

"Mine's Louise. Everyone calls her Weezy."

Tabbie took it next. "Christopher's our dad… mine and Ben's." She handed it back to Slim.

It was poignant moment… a momentous one that consummated the connection between Matthew and Andrew Sherman and the children of their father's _other_ children. As everyone stood there wondering what next to say, the solemnity of the occasion was interrupted by a knock at the open door.

" **It's the depitty sherf,"** Mike announced unnecessarily as the individual slouching in the door frame twiddling his hat in his hands was quite obviously Emmett Stryker.

"Sorry to bust in on you folks like this…"

"That's okay, Emmett… come on in. What brings you out this way?"

"Thing is… this feller got off the evenin' train. Come by the office lookin' for you. Sheriff Corey figured you'd wanna see him right away. Sent me along to make sure he got here."

"What feller… where?" Slim walked toward the door.

"Right here…" The deputy gestured to the visitor standing in the shadows on the porch, then courteously stood aside.

The broad-shouldered man who stepped inside into the light wasn't as tall as Slim, but carried himself with the same ramrod-straight posture. His was hair lighter and curlier, his lined face narrower, and his spectacles magnified eyes a shade darker than Slim's. There was no denying the facial structure as his mouth curved into a grin identical to Slim's… including dimples. He extended his hand.

"Hi. I'm Chris Schirrman."

 _ **Ben's Journal, Saturday, July 25:**_ _Thought for sure the girls were going to faint when Pa walked in the door. Felt a little light-headed myself. It was incredible the way Slim welcomed him in as if they'd known each other their whole lives. What's even more amazing is that Pa's being so cool about it all. He admits he was angry when he got on the train three days ago, but then he had time to simmer down, especially after having a talk with Sheriff Corey. Deputy Ryker probably contributed some good words on our behalf while they were riding out here, although he doesn't talk much and hardly ever in complete sentences. The deputy got Mister Jackson out of bed to open up the livery so he could get his horse and one for Pa. Pretty sure Mister Jackson also had nice things to say about us and about Slim and Andy so that probably helped save our bacon._

 _Anyway, Pa got introduced all around and Slim explained about the trunk and the 'evidence' in it, which they decided to set aside for now and maybe go through it tomorrow or the next day. Slim did keep out the little Bible to show Pa, though. Deputy Ryker was invited to stay the night but he said he had to get on back._

 _The 'ladies' (I use that term loosely except for Miss Daisy) have all gone to bed. Miss Daisy's in her own room. Eddie's got the trundle bed in there. Max and Tabbie are in Andy and Mike's room. Pa and Mike are going to sleep in the bunks in the back of Slim and Jess' room. Andy and I are going to sleep on the couch and sofa in the parlor. Jess has already gone to bed, too… said he wasn't feeling_ _good_ _well._

 _Pa and Slim are still talking at the kitchen table. Been at it for hours and hours and swilled enough coffee to float a battleship._

 _Ma'll have heart failure if she ever finds out everything that's happened to us since we got here. Good thing THAT's not going to happen. Pa agrees it's best if we never EVER tell her—or Dora and Weezy—_ _everythin_ _g. They'd never let us leave the house again until we're forty years old!_

 _Pa said we can stay until the end of the week and then we have to go home. Looks like maybe Andy's going to go with us and visit for a couple of weeks, then catch a train back to St. Louis because his school starts back up same time as ours._

 _This has been a little_ _more_ _adventure than I bargained for… but I don't think I'll ever regret having experienced it. And—truth be told—I'm glad the girls came along to share it._

 _Sleepy now. Going to bed._


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30—_ **EPILOGUE**

 **The week rolled by too quickly.** Suddenly, it was Sunday. Nonetheless, an astonishing number of loose ends were tidied up and resolutions achieved during that time and shortly following the departure of Andy and the relatives…

 **Slim allowed himself** to be persuaded out of bringing charges against the would-be horse thieves. A plausible story was concocted to explain the gang's presence at the Sherman ranch that fateful night… one that the townsfolk might question but couldn't disprove. According to the new partner-doctors at Whatleigh  & McPheeters, General Practitioners, Russell Monroe would recover in time although he'd never again do any hard riding. His outlaw days were over.

Rusty was the first patient to be admitted to the long-term wing of the community clinic just opened under the auspices of the Dominican convent on the north side of town—presently consisting of one ward for males and one for females. Fundraising was already underway for a planned expansion into a hospital complex. Volunteer attending physicians Young Doc and Doc Jaimie finagled the other three town doctors into providing services _pro bono_ on a rotating basis. Sisters Monica Jude and Agnes Simon, fresh out of nursing school, were thrilled to be given the responsibility of running the shiny new facility.

 **Sullen and defiant at first,** Rusty did a complete turnaround when Ruth Ann limped in on the arm of Father Sean. Mother Superior Bartholomew came along as shotgun in case extra verbal firepower was required to convince the young man in understanding what needed to be done. Happily, it wasn't. Rusty was overjoyed to see Ruth Ann, somewhat alarmed at her condition, and cautiously amenable to the prospect of marriage. After a brief conversation off to the side, priest and nun agreed that under the circumstances, certain protocols could be overlooked as well as the fact that neither party was Catholic. Russell Monroe and Ruth Ann were united in holy matrimony that very afternoon, after which Ruth Ann returned to the orphanage facility next door where she and her sisters were temporarily residing.

There were a _lot_ of orphans—mostly native children and with a sprinkling of overflow whites from the county orphanage. The new teaching sisters, Melanie John and Joan Levi, gratefully enlisted Cindy Lou and Ellie May as aides. Away from the public eye, Ruth Ann taught reading, writing and arithmetic to the older children until such time as she and Rusty could live openly together as a couple. Unknown to them, arrangements were already underway to place them as the McPheeters' live-in help, child welcome, if that proved agreeable.

 **Coyote, Chana and the other two boys** who'd escaped weren't seen again around Laramie. Neither were Elliott and his surviving crew member. However, news started dribbling in some weeks later that selective horse thievery had been cropping up in Idaho and was moving steadily westward.

 **Doctor McPheeters** found a spacious home offered at a suspiciously modest price as it'd been vacant for quite some time. Turned out the property was held to be tainted, having been previously owned and occupied by a succession of entrepreneurs in the hospitality trade—Madams Aline Flambeau, Vidalia Shallot and Blanche Hollandaise, each of whom had married and retired from the bordello business. His wife Annie got a hoot out of that when he wrote her about it.

 **Nicola Niederhauser** was thrilled with Adam's presentation of two very fine fillies on their anniversary. In return she presented him with the news that he was going to be a father. According to Young Doc, judging by the way she was ballooning in her first trimester, they could likely expect twins.

 **Marilyn Bartlett and Daisy Cooper** went into overdrive in anticipation of yet more new babies to outfit. Marilyn provided the wool and flannelette, cut out patterns and hemmed diapers and receiving blankets. Daisy knitted and crocheted caps and booties and sewed tiny gowns. Although Young Doc didn't exactly share patient details, he did mention offhand that they had about six to seven weeks to complete any layettes for… well… whoever might be needing one _right away_ … and about seven months for someone else…

 **As expected, the Pinkerton agency** set up a great howl at the loss of two agents. Threats and demands flew fast and furious between their Chicago headquarters and Governor Campbell's office in Cheyenne. A closed hearing held in the Albany County courthouse cleared the defendants of all culpability—especially after Magnum, Monk and Clouseau delivered scathing accounts of the attack on private citizens and Rademacher's attempted murder of Matthew Sherman (after which they tendered their resignations and opened their own private investigative agency in Cheyenne). Moreover, Pinkertons was declared liable for damages to ranch and livery property. A hefty fine was levied to compensate all defensive parties for that plus personal damages and emotional distress. When the agency balked at the enormity of their financial blow, a little not altogether discreet blackmail convinced them they would derive no benefit by having this story published in major news media from coast to coast. They coughed up and shut up.

 _ **But returning to that final week…**_ The nuclear _Sherman_ family turned out to see off the _Schirrman_ contingent, plus Andy, at the railway station. It was arranged that Tommy and Jerry Bartlett would mind the ranch that day so that the partners could both attend the farewell party at the platform.

Slim and Jess pretended to whine about Andy's leaving two weeks early… they wouldn't be seeing him again until the winter break. Goodbyes were made. Kisses, hugs and handshakes were exchanged… and promises to keep in touch. The travelers boarded and the morning eastbound train chugged away.

Jess and Slim rode in on Ranger and Scout. Traveller's quarter crack hadn't widened during that short, mad gallop but Jess wasn't taking any chances. Daisy was driving the spring wagon, Mike at her side. She cast a benign smile at her 'boys'.

"Mike and I are going straight home. You needn't accompany us. Why don't you two take some time for yourselves?"

What was meant and understood was that Daisy was bestowing on them her indirect dispensation to visit their favorite watering hole… or other indulgences. Not that she approved of saloons in general, of course—and even less of sporting houses—but she was a practical woman… and these two had been under too much pressure for too long. As both had dispensed with their slings, she judged them well enough to carry on. She clucked to the team and the wagon rolled away.

Jess took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

"How about it, pard? You feel like grabbin' a couple a cold ones at Red Dog's?"

Slim mopped at his neck with his bandanna.

"Nah. Too dadblamed hot."

"What 'bout the Prairie Rose? Now I'm a respectable ranch owner an' all they might let me in."

"Some other time. You just got your stitches out and my shoulder's aching, so not a good idea."

"Well… what _do_ you wanna do? It's been a coon's age since we…"

"You know what I'd _really_ like to do, Jess?" Slim pushed his hat back and leaned forward on the horn, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"No. What?"

"I'd like to go fishing."

"You kiddin' me?"

"Nope. I want a lazy, do-nothing afternoon, fishing with my best friend until the sun goes down. Then we'll have a nice, _quiet_ supper for a change. I know for a fact Daisy's planning on chicken and dumplings, with apple pie for dessert."

"What about the fish?"

"We'll throw 'em back."

"Then what?" Catching on now, Jess returned a grin of his own.

"This evening… front porch, you and me… coffee and conversation."

"Now you're talkin'!" Jess crowed.

 _ **The two friends turned and spurred their horses toward home.**_

 _ **~~~~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~~~~**_

 ** _Many thanks to my dedicated betas—Raian Kaiser and Christine Jeffords, whose close attention and untold hours have hopefully relieved this story of an astounding number of typos, misspellings, grammatical faux pas and more than a few canonical errors. Any remaining departures from canon and punctuation choices outside the norm are intended on my part._**


End file.
